


A Hard Man is Good to Find

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, holiday fic, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the prompt speaks for itself: my boss is always telling me how perfect her son would be for me and she promises he’s coming to the next holiday party and don’t worry he’s heard all about me too and ALSO there’s this dude i slept with once a couple of months ago and sometimes he still sends me dick pics when i ask him to at 3 in the morning cause seriously dude’s got a good dick AU. please note the change in rating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**A Hard Man is Good to Find**

“So, tell me about Regina's brother.” 

“Huh?” 

Emma looked up, startled and a little fuzzy from too many whiskey and cokes. It took a second for her eyes to focus on Mary Margaret, who was slouched on the sticky table and resting her head on her arms. Her beatific smile was a little dreamier than usual; probably because she had three empty giant fishbowl-sized margarita glasses lined up next to her face. 

“Regina's been trying to introduce you to her brother Killian for months now. Frankly, I think she's annoyed that you won't even meet him, so I offered to find out why.” 

“Since when do you make it a habit of talking to my boss?” 

Mary Margaret shrugged. “I don't know, since back at your housewarming when she brought that delicious lasagna and I wanted the recipe? We text sometimes. Did you know that she's overcome a lot to get where she is today?” 

“Yeah, I do. She brings it up all the time. Along with how much of an ass her brother is, which apparently means he's perfect for me. And stop texting my boss.” 

“No. Stop being so closed-off to potential love, and stop complaining about him.” 

“Bite me, then go get me a refill. I do not complain about him.” 

“Uh,” Ruby smoothly interrupted, plunking a fresh tumbler in front of the bristling Emma. “You've been bitching about this for months, hon.” 

“Have I?” Emma asked, skeptical, reaching for her new drink and tossing half of it back on the first sip, then coughing as the carbonation burned down her throat. 

“Yup,” Mary Margaret said, exaggerating the popping of the p as she fingered the glass of water Ruby set before her. “How you could probably be really happy at your job if only your boss would stop trying to foist her troublemaker of a brother on you all the time.” 

“How the last thing you want is another set-up,” Ruby added helpfully, setting her Cosmo down after taking a sip and shuddering prettily. 

“How all Regina would tell you is that he needs some civilizing, how you figure that's code for either 'womanizer,' 'slob,' or both, and how you can always tell when he's on the phone because Regina sounds like she's going to do a murder for hours afterwards.” This was from Mer, who was doing her best to drink everyone under the table by accepting every single drink sent their way, regardless of who it was supposed to be for. Her accent got thicker the more she drank, but they'd all known each other for so long that Emma had no trouble understanding her friend. She rolled her eyes and took another careful sip of her drink as Mary Margaret smiled wickedly. 

“How if he's anything like his half-sister, you'd skip town like one of your jumpers, never to be seen or heard from again.” 

“You guys are hilarious.” 

“Hey,” Ruby grinned, toasting her thin martini glass against Emma's more solid lowball with a dull clank. “You talk so much shit on this guy that we're kind of dying to meet him.” 

“ _I_ haven't even met him yet.” 

“Ooh, _yet_.” 

“Won't be meeting him,” Emma amended. “He's coming down for Thanksgiving, apparently, and I fully intend on not being around the office the whole weekend. Requested it off, actually, to hang out with you people and do our annual thing.” 

Emma raised her glass and her girls gave a loud whoop, drawing the eyes of many of the patrons of the bar as they toasted each other, the drinks continuing to appear as quickly as they drank them (except for Mary Margaret the DD, who ruefully watered herself down while their booze kept flowing). 

At some point, it was decided that they'd close out the bar. It had been a while since they'd all had coordinating free time—Mary Margaret was working on her Master's and was planning her wedding, besides; Mer was working her ass off at three different jobs just trying to keep her teenaged triplet brothers and their constant need for food from putting her in the poor house. Ruby was getting pretty hot and heavy with some guy she was doing her residency with so there went all her time in a _Grey's Anatomy_ kind of way, and Emma found herself out of town more often as Regina was beginning to begrudgingly trust her more and more to get the job done. They were all doing pretty well, but sadly, that meant they saw each other less and texted each other more. 

She heard her phone ting as she fell into the back seat of Mary Margaret's SUV. 

“Uhh, Emma?” 

“Hmm?” Emma was tired. She had to be up early the following morning, and she was already regretting the dry heaves she'd be having all day. 

“Who the eff is BDJ, and why is he sending you...oh!” Mary Margaret gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. Then she started to laugh, high-pitched giggles that were barely stifled by her fingers. “Holy crap.” 

“What, what?” Ruby demanded, leaning between the two front seats to peer at what Emma saw, with horror, was her phone in Mary Margaret's other hand. “Oh my God. Oh my _God_. Make it bigger! Make it bigger! Give me your damned hand.” Ruby grabbed Emma's arm and wrestled herself around it until she had Emma armlocked. “Open. Now. Spread 'em, Swan.” 

Emma sighed. She knew it was useless to resist. Her secret was about to get out. 

She pointed her one finger and grimaced as Mary Margaret gleefully pressed the home button using Emma's fingertip, unlocking her phone to slake their pervy curiosity. Ruby didn't even pay Emma any mind, so breathless was she in anticipation. 

“What the hell, girls,” Mer moaned from the back. 

“You wouldn't be as interested,” Emma moaned back, putting her head in her hands and wishing the world would stop spinning for one damned minute. 

“Wow,” Ruby and Mary Margaret breathed in unison. Emma looked up and watched as they turned to her, their eyes round. Mary Margaret spoke first. “Emma. I'm impressed.” 

“What?” Mer demanded now, her red curls flashing in Emma's periphery. “What's going—is that a _cock_?” 

Ruby giggled and kept repeating _cock_ in a terrible Scots accent. _Cock_. _Cock. Cock._

“Yeah,” Emma sighed. 

“Who the hell is sending you dick pics at...2:30am?” 

“BDJ,” Mary Margaret promptly answered, and Emma closed her eyes and sighed again. 

“Who the hell is BDJ?” 

“Just this guy,” Emma mumbled. 

“Wait, wait,” Ruby said, the slur suddenly missing from her voice—the unmistakeable sound of a woman on the hunt and closing in on her prey. “BD is obviously Big Dick, right?” Emma didn't even bother to answer. “J...Jones? That Jones guy we met at the Hole a few months ago?” 

Emma sat up straight and leaned her head back against the seat, which was a terrible idea. “Yeah.” She winced and reclaimed her arm from Ruby, reaching up to rub at her temple. 

“Wow. I should've let him buy me a drink, too. Wait. Wow. Is _this_ why you've been so relaxed lately?” Emma could hear the grin in Ruby's voice and she closed her eyes in defeat again. _Here we go._ “I didn't realize you guys were still seeing each other. Is this why you don't want to meet Regina's brother?” 

“We're _not_ seeing each other, it was just the one time. I don't even know his first name,” Emma said flatly, hoping that would explain everything, but it didn't. Not really. They all knew she wasn't a fan of repeat encounters, and that was why she always introduced herself to guys as “Swan”; the prospectives would laugh and make some joke about beauty and grace and she'd roll her eyes and say “last names only,” just to weed out the sappy types who insisted on knowing her first name. So, she was Swan, and he'd been Jones. 

Jones, the very large of dick. 

Jones, who had inexplicably managed to get her number that night, even though she'd never once intended to answer his phone calls. After four of them that first day after, she'd finally texted him _sorry jones, one-time thing only_. Trouble was, he'd retorted with **Y** **ou left your handcuffs in my apartment** and followed up with **I'm rather disappointed you didn't use them on me last night** and one of those stupid winky faces, not even an emoji. Charmed despite herself, she'd kept up the text banter for most of the day (what could she say, she'd been staking out some scumbag and her book had been boring the hell out of her). Long story short, when she'd crawled into bed that night and he'd responded to her last text with **If you came over, I'd be more than happy to give you a full-body massage provided you're still into reciprocating like you were last night** and she'd grinned thinking about it, how he'd been the most fun she'd had with a one-night stand in years. Some seriously filthy texting had occurred then that had been punctuated by her demanding to see what he was doing that exact moment, and voila. The tradition of him sending her pictures of his dick whenever she was feeling all randy and asked for one. 

Wait, why had he sent a dick pic tonight? 

“Gimme that,” she snapped, suddenly feeling less drunk and more alert. She stabbed at her phone, swiping down to read...oh, _shit_. 

She'd been drunk texting him. Filth, she'd been drunk texting him filth. Again. While at the bar. Hazy flashes returned to her then, of her grinning and licking her lips while she typed out the filthiest, most uninhibited shit she could come up with. 

_lets have it, then, jones_ was the last thing she'd texted. Hence the new picture. His hand wrapped around it, nice and low. He hadn't even taken his rings off. 

“He didn't send that unsolicited, did he? Because I'll break his--” 

“No, no,” Emma sighed, scrolling back to the bottom of the messages, back to his...selfie. “I definitely asked for it.” 

“ _Yeah_ , you did,” Ruby said with emphasis. “Good, I approve. I can't let you play with a guy who just sends his dick out all over the place, I don't care how good it is.” 

“It is good, isn't it?” Emma murmured, trying to take her eyes off the thing, but, well. She was only human, and she was oddly proud of this moment. 

“Gosh, it's nice and pink, innit?” Mer breathed as she elbowed Ruby over to put her head next to Emma's. “And...veiny. Are they always like that? He seems huge. He's huge, right?” 

“Perfectly respectable,” Mary Margaret responded, finally, blessedly putting her keys in the ignition. 

“Respectable?” Ruby balked, flopping her arm between the seats to point emphatically at Emma's phone. “Mary Margaret Blanchard, that is a beautiful, beautiful dick, and you know it. And you know I think most penises are weird.” 

“Guys,” Emma tried, but they wouldn't hear it. 

“Is Nolan that big?” 

“Do _not_ talk about my fucking brother right now,” Emma groaned. 

“Size doesn't matter if he doesn't know what to do with it, anyway,” Mary Margaret huffed, the twinkle in her eye belying her pout. “So. Emma.” 

“What?” 

“Does he?” 

“Does he what.” 

“Know what to do with it.” 

Emma closed her eyes, trying not to remember, but remember she did. The corner of her mouth quirked up, and that made her girls laugh with delight. 

“Totally knows what to do with it,” Ruby said with satisfaction, like she was living vicariously or something. 

“Can we please stop talking about this?” 

“No.” 

Emma sighed. “Why the hell not?” 

“Because you haven't even responded to him yet. Poor Big Dick Jones! Sent you the Rembrandt of dick pics and you haven't even responded with so much as a 'nice' or the tongue emoji or the 100 emoji or the--” 

“Oh my God, shut up,” Emma said, smiling despite herself. “You two, buckle up. You,” and here she pointed at Mary Margaret with her phone, “Drive.” 

“Point that thing someplace else.” 

That made Ruby and Mer dissolve into laughter, but blessedly, they all complied. Emma reached for her own seat belt and once the car was in motion, she started chewing on her lip and contemplating a response. She saw the three dots indicating he was writing; suddenly feeling much more sober as a thrill of excitement buzzed up her spine, she hurriedly flipped her phone to vibrate, knowing they'd want to know if he said anything else or sent any more pictures. 

**It isn't very nice to leave a man hanging, as it were**

She grinned and tapped out a response. 

_sry, got distracted and had to retrieve my phone from a jerk_

**tell Ruby I said hullo**

_can we continue this in about fifteen minutes_

**sure thing, love**

Emma ignored Mary Margaret's pointed, “Who ya textin'?” and settled back, waiting impatiently until she got dropped off. She grinned, anticipating the rest of her evening. 

Once she and Jones had...completed their exchanges almost an hour later, Emma didn't respond to his barely-concealed references to their meeting in person again. She told herself it was because she was drunk and tired, and not because she enjoyed talking to him way too much. She figured if she looked at his face again, she wouldn't be able to stop thinking about the way his eyes burned into hers as he shoveled seriously cheesy innuendo all over her, or the way she kind of liked his type of flirting, or the way he didn't feel like a one-off. It wasn't something she wanted to think about, so she didn't. Mostly. 

xxx 

“I want to die.” 

“And you haven't even started on paperwork yet,” Regina said crisply, dropping two fat files on Emma's desk. Emma groaned, dropping her head on the pile and staying like that until she felt and heard another thunk on her desk. She looked up and smiled weakly at Regina, who had placed a bottle of cold Fiji next to her files. 

“Late night?”she said drily. 

“Yeah. Mary Margaret--” 

“She told me.” 

“Right.” Because even her workspace wasn't sacred where her friends were concerned. 

Emma and Regina worked quietly, both of them glad that the workload was light leading up to the holiday. She'd finally gotten into a good groove where screwing up her eyes to focus on filling out tiny little boxes wasn't so headache-inducing when Regina broke the studious silence. 

“So,” she began casually, the tapping of her keyboard seeming a little overzealous to Emma's sensitive, still slightly booze-soaked head. “Meet anyone at the bar last night?” 

“Um, no?” Emma replied, frowning at the inked line she'd accidentally streaked up the page at Regina's question. “We have a firm 'no boys on girls' night' rule. Or girls, for Mer.” 

“Good,” Regina said firmly, making Emma roll her eyes. “Men are a distraction.” 

The words were out of Emma's mouth before she could take them back. 

“I thought you were all gung-ho on me meeting your brother.” 

“Killian is an idiot,” Regina muttered, tapping furiously on her computer to punctuate her words. “A complete fucking moron. He doesn't deserve you.” 

“I thought I was going to civilize him?” 

“Beyond redemption,” she muttered darkly. “He was supposed to spend Thanksgiving with me, but he says he's too twisted over some girl to make for pleasant company. Like I said, idiot.” 

“Ah,” Emma said distractedly, finishing up with her first file. It took a few minutes for what her boss said to register. Looking heavenward, she decided to make the invitation, even though she really did want to keep her work and home life separate. But hell, she liked Regina, and apparently, so did her friends. “Listen, why don't you come to my place? Mary Margaret's cooking, not me. I'm just providing the table. And the alcohol. Lots of that.” 

Regina didn't respond right away, and Emma thought for a moment that she was going to refuse, but Regina smiled and nodded, saying she'd be glad to come. After a quick call to Mary Margaret, it was decided that Regina would bring the pies (“apples, I'll need lots of apples,” Regina muttered to herself after Emma made her report). Despite her usual distaste for the holidays and making merry, Emma decided that maybe this year, with everyone around to enjoy her first house and like, an actual life being in progress, that Thanksgiving might be pretty darned nice. 

xxx 

“You are hopeless.” 

“Shut up. Don't ask for my help and then insult how I do it.” 

“Seriously, Emma. All you have to do is scoop the filling into the mushroom caps. How hard can that be?” 

“You diced the onions too big, they don't fit!” 

“Oh my goodness, they're caramelized, all nice and soft. _Make_ them fit.” 

“Yeah, Emma,” Mer offered, coming over to lean on the counter holding a whiskey bottle by the neck between two fingers. She took a big swig before pointing it toward Emma's work. “Cram them into that tight space. You're good at making big things fit, the way I hear it.” 

“La la la laaaa,” came David's voice from the living room, both Victor and Robin's laughter unrestrained and kind of lewd. “Some of us are trying to watch the game here.” 

“David, get off that couch and come chop something. You don't even like football.” 

“I like pointed references to my sister's sex life even less. And I made the sweet potato pie _and_ the green bean casserole.” 

“Get your own conversation, David,” Mary Margaret called out, coming over to inspect Emma's handiwork once again. “Nice cramming.” She grinned before going back to whisking gravy or whatever it was she was doing. 

Emma finished her one job and shoved the pan into the oven, cringing when she hit Mary Margaret's corn souffle and hoping she didn't just fuck it up. It was the first time her oven was being used for anything other than DiGiorno's, and she hoped it passed muster. The small house was new, and Mary Margaret claimed she loved it, but she did tend to have a positive outlook on everything. She even thought the tiny side yard “had potential,” and her opinion was one of the reasons Emma had bought the house in the first place. Sometimes, Emma really envied her future sister-in-law, but all in all, she was glad one of her best friends was becoming an actual, related part of her family. 

She was interrupted from her fond musings when she felt her phone buzzing in her pocket. She pulled it out and glanced down at the text. 

“Regina's here,” she murmured, unlocking and going to tap out “just come on in” when another message appeared. 

“Aaaand she brought her brother. Shit.” 

“Ohh,” said Ruby, who was sitting on the counter and eating raw cranberries (gross). “We get to meet the brother! Good thing you didn't invite BDJ. That could have been awkward.” 

Emma ignored David's puzzled “BDJ?” in favor of staring her friend down as she backed toward the front hall. Great. Operation Set Up Swan might still happen. So much for the possibility of a pleasant holiday. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Regina breathed as she brushed past Emma once the door was open. “I'm very sorry. Killian showed up out of nowhere, all mopey and pathetic. I couldn't leave him home alone.” 

“No, it's okay,” Emma said, confused when there was no one at the door. “Uhh, is he coming in, or--?” 

“Yes,” Regina said crisply as she walked down the hall. “You men there,” Emma heard, laughing as she pictured the three boys on the couch snapping to attention for a woman they had only met once. “Please go help my brother get the food out of the car.” Emma heard Rob's smarmy “certainly, your majesty,” and stifled her laughter, kind of looking forward to Regina taking him to task for it later. 

“Regina,” Emma laughed, coming back to the open living room/kitchen area. “You and I could have gotten it.” 

“I don't carry things,” Regina said haughtily, which made everyone laugh. She grinned and chucked her chin vaguely in the direction of the front door. “But honestly, I've had it with him already. Really, I'm doing you all a service leaving him to do the heavy lifting. One more minute alone with the moron Killian Jones, and I think I might turn into an evil-doer.” 

Of course, Emma didn't think anything of Regina's rushed words. She simply joined Ruby and hopped up on the counter, doing her best to stay out of Mary Margaret's and now Regina's way as the two took over her kitchen. 

It wasn't until an accented “easy on the pies there, mate!” called out from beyond that Emma finally realized what Regina had called her brother. 

Killian _Jones_. 

Oh, sweet merciful _Jesus_. 

Couldn't be. The last time she'd heard that voice, it had been whispering filth in her ear. It had been accompanied by sweaty, sticky, energetic sex. It had been low and teasing, full of the promise of even better next time, and in that moment, she had told herself that there should be a lot of next times. Problem was, Emma was Emma, and she'd talked herself out of all that potential because...she was an asshole. An asshole who was apparently about to have the most awkward Thanksgiving dinner of all time. 

Emma kind of went blank. She was tucked in the corner of her own kitchen, Ruby blocking her view as she fidgeted with the lid on the Crock Pot filled with Mary Margaret's delicious homemade stuffing. She could hear David laughing as he deposited stuff on the counter nearby, could hear the easy charm of Killian _Jones_ as he was introduced to her entire family. 

She stuck her arm up in the air and waved, not looking around Ruby to make the visual confirmation. The way her body was buzzing was confirmation enough. It was definitely him. 

“Yo. Boy Regina is _hot,”_ Ruby whispered excitedly _._

“Mm,” Emma hummed noncommittally. 

“You didn't even look! Are you still hung up on BDJ, Em?” 

“What? No!” Emma protested. _Probably_. 

“I bet this one's a BDK,” Ruby said slyly, poking Emma in the ribs and making her gasp sharply. 

“Not funny, Ruby.” 

“What is with you?” her friend wondered as Emma hopped off the counter. She ignored that, looking to make sure the coast was clear before dashing out the other side of the kitchen and heading for her room. She just needed to think. 

She was gone possibly a little too long, what with standing in her bathroom and trying to decide how to best proceed. There was no way— _no way_ her friends didn't put two and two together, eventually. No way they'd be able to behave themselves. 

That made her eyes narrow. She wasn't going to let them or him ruin her turkey and Wild Turkey dinner. She sucked in a deep breath and marched out of her bathroom, determined to make the most of what had become a shitty situation. 

And ran straight into Killian Jones in her own darkened hallway. 

“Oh, sorry, love. You must be Emma... _Swan_.” She heard the moment his voice went from polite stranger to a man who knew what she looked like naked. 

He had stayed her with both of his hands on her shoulders, steadying the both of them right after they'd collided. Emma braced herself for the ensuing conversation, trying to ignore the absolute buzz in her body at really seeing him for the first time in months. He was hotter than she remembered, or maybe it was just the sense of familiarity, or that she was actually really glad to see him again. 

His hair was longer, that was the first thing she noticed. He was backlit by the light coming down the hall, so she couldn't see the details of his pretty face. But even in the near-darkness, she could feel the intensity of his eyes burning into hers as she grappled with something brilliant to say. 

“Hi.” 

“Hi.” 

Neither of them had any kind of response so they just kept standing there, Emma desperately trying to keep herself from ignoring him completely or climbing up onto his face, Jones seeming really tense, like he was about ready to jump out of his own skin. 

After a million years of this, Emma licked her lips, ready to say something, but his eyes caught the movement and the wicked smile she remembered lit up his face. 

“Yeah, this is going to be rough,” she whispered; he was still watching her mouth as she did her best to keep from returning his smile. 

“As I recall, you like it rough.” 

“Don't,” she warned, although she wasn't sure whether she was telling him to knock it off or telling him not to remind her of...that. And how he was right. How he'd definitely given it to her in the best way possible. 

Fuck. Honestly, fuck her life. 

Just when she was gearing up to get mean (not that she wanted to, but how the hell else was she going to make it?), Jones dropped his hands from her shoulders and took a step back. She felt confused for a second, and disappointed the next. Boy, did she need to figure out what she wanted. She couldn't exactly tell him not to touch her when she was dying to feel him pressed up against her again. 

“Love, listen. You don't have to worry. I'll behave. I'll even pretend polite disinterest, for Regina's sake. She seems to labor under the misapprehension that the best employee she's ever had would somehow manage to keep me in line. Something about my criminal tendencies pairing well with your ability to hog-tie men, it wasn't exactly clear,” he said, his expression suddenly guarded and neutral. 

She hated it. That night they'd met, he'd been open and engaging, and charming as hell. Jones without an enthusiastic expression seemed wrong. 

“Yeah, okay,” she breathed, for lack of anything better to say. “Just... I don't know. We can... I don't know.” 

“Right.” He turned on his heel and started to walk away, and Emma felt worse than before. She wasn't sure whether it was because he was walking away from her, or whether it was because just before he did, there was resignation in his eyes, and were she not mistaken, disappointment. 

Emma took a few minutes to settle her nerves down before she returned to the kitchen. By then the bird had been taken out of the oven and Ruby was carving (“you're the surgical resident, you need the practice!”). Jones and Robin were setting the table, and that seemed like a bad plan to Emma because they seemed to be fast friends already, thick as thieves, laughing and putting their heads together as they kept sneaking glances to the kitchen. Robin was an old friend of Mary Margaret's, and Emma noticed her giving assessing looks at the way Robin kept glancing at Regina, who of course was oblivious to all of it. 

Once they sat down and started passing dishes around, David cleared his throat and made his usual speech about friends and family, somehow managing to keep it under a minute. Emma sighed happily as she raised her fork, digging into the stuffing slathered in gravy. There was that blessed first minute of silence as they all dug into the excellent food, everyone too hungry from smelling the good smells all day, too busy eating to say much of anything. 

Until David the comedian tapped his glass. 

“I'm thankful for my fiancee, the beautiful and talented cook. Hey, why don't we all go around the room and say what we're thankful f--” 

David couldn't even say it with a straight face, laughing as the entire table groaned. Someone who was definitely not Emma lobbed a dinner roll at his head. 

“Every year,” Emma muttered, smiling before shoveling sweet potato pie in her mouth. 

Jones, who was seated across from her at the table (at Regina's insistence, naturally), looked up and offered her a soft smile. He seemed to be the only one who had heard her, and she couldn't help it, she smiled in return. _Maybe this won't be so bad after all_ , she thought to herself. 

“So Killian, what do you do for a living?” Mer asked from down the table. All eyes turned toward him—the one unknown quantity, as far as most of them were concerned. Emma silently prayed that things would go smoothly, that her friends wouldn't grill him too much. Then she smacked herself mentally for even giving a crap. He could certainly handle himself (and herself, for that matter). 

He finished chewing and swiped at his mouth with the napkin from his lap ( _what a goddamned gentleman_ , she thought wryly) before speaking. 

“I have an office down by the docks,” he said, smiling at the redhead before taking a sip of his Martinelli's Sparkling Cider. 

“Ah. Male prostitute?” Mer said sympathetically. Regina choked and Emma grinned, knowing she'd have to defend her friend later on, but right now it was just too amusing. 

“Only on the weekends,” he returned smoothly, and Emma noticed the looks of approval from around the table. Even Mer smirked, her eyes darting to give Emma the look of _this one can hang_ before continuing her interview. 

“Does that come with dental?” 

“Were I full time, yes. Alas, I have to find my oral coverage elsewhere.” 

“Nice.” This from Victor, who raised his glass in Jones's direction from down the table. He tipped his glass in kind, and Emma found herself smiling indulgently. 

_The friends approve_ , she thought to herself. 

Then she swallowed back a bit of panic. 

Luckily, he kept doing the talking thing, so she focused on his words to quell the roiling in her stomach. 

“Actually, my brother is a treasure hunter,” Regina said. 

“Really?” 

She couldn't help herself from piping up. He hadn't told her that. Then again, he hadn't told her much of anything about himself, really; they didn't know each other at all. Apart from knowing naked things, of course. Like how he was a switch hitter, good at all positions, or that he was good for about four hours and three solid orgasms, and untold orgasms from her. That he snarled a little bit when he was working hard. That he was really damned ticklish around his navel. 

“Aye, _Emma_ ,” he said with emphasis, breaking her from her nasty thoughts. He turned to face her fully and leaned one elbow on the table. “Much like a pirate, I'm interested in plunder.” He lifted one brow lazily, and despite the cheesiness of the line, it still made her feel like they were the only two in the room. Or maybe she was just having flashbacks to other times when his eyes were burning into hers. 

She suddenly wanted to hear him murmuring her name—her _first_ name—into her skin. 

“Yo, get a room, you two,” said Ruby, and Jones chuckled easily. “But first, Killian. Tell us about plundering. In graphic detail, please.” 

He chuckled again, then went into describing what he did all day—looking for sunken boats off the New England coast using historical records and like, old reports of hurricanes and shit. Emma wasn't necessarily listening—she was watching the way he interacted with everyone. Once it sank in that he legitimately looked for buried treasure, everyone at the table seemed really impressed by Regina's brother. Emma could practically feel the room conspiring against her as Jones continued to charm every single person in her life. 

Including her. 

“...I swear to you, the cannons on old galleons were heavy as hell,” he was saying to David, enthralling her brother with some of his more interesting exploits. Emma fingered the rim of her empty glass, more irritated with Mary Margaret's embargo on booze during Thanksgiving dinner than ever. Killian Jones was kind of a dreamboat. When she'd met him at the bar he had seemed much more dangerous, and super alluring. He had been a stranger that looked at her as if he already knew what she looked like without clothes in, and he looked like he definitely knew what to do with her once she was naked. And he hadn't disappointed. But this Killian—Regina's brother, _God_ —was engaging and handsome and charming as hell. Emma was pretty sure David was already nursing a giant man crush on the guy. 

“We had a hell of a time trying to lift one. The crane on my ship near bent under the strain of it; I had to give up, which was terribly disappointing.” Dinner was winding down, and as Jones got more and more animated in the regaling of work stories, Emma got more and more agitated, wishing for her post-turkey whiskey so she could have an excuse to walk away from increasingly appealing Killian Jones. God, what was _wrong_ with her? 

“The crane bent?” Mer sounded skeptical but interested, leaning forward to listen to him. 

“Oh, definitely. Not before my ship listed so far to the side, she near tipped over.” He grinned, turning himself to address Mer and lifting his hands to mimic the crane bending, Emma supposed. He started waving his hands around in emphasis, and that's when Mary Margaret, who was sitting next to Emma, stiffened and slapped Emma on the thigh under the table. Her nails dug into Emma's flesh, making her jump and drop her fork. 

“Mary Margaret, what the f--” 

“Whiskey time, Emma,” she cut in. Emma turned, her face pinched in annoyance, but she stopped when she saw the look on her friend's face. 

“Yeah, okay,” Emma said slowly. She stood, rubbing at her thigh a little and murmuring an excuse to the table. She caught the look of concern on Jones's face before she turned, heading toward the kitchen to have a whisper-yell with her friend, who apparently had something on her mind. 

“Okay, seriously, Mary Margaret. What's with the abuse, I nearly--” 

“I recognize those rings, Emma.” 

“What are you talking about? You probably bruised my leg--” 

“Killian Jones. J for Jones. Big Dick Jones. The rings from his--” Mary Margaret wiggled her fingers before making a circling and holding gesture, then she blushed, furiously. Emma felt her dinner threatening to creep up her throat. Oh _God_. 

“Yeah, about that.” 

“Did you know--?” 

“Of course I didn't know! Do you really think I would sit here and allow this to happen?” 

“No, I don't. No, you're right,” Mary Margaret sighed. She chewed on her lip as Emma stood there glaring, feeling really damned defensive and wondering why. 

After a few moments, Mary Margaret put on her signature “it's going to turn out fine” face and took Emma's hand. “Well,” she said, patting Emma repeatedly and then reaching for the bottle of Wild Turkey on the counter. “He seems to be a hit, so there's that.” She made to go back to the table but Emma stopped her, glancing over her shoulder to see that Jones was making everyone laugh raucously. 

“What do you think of him?” 

The words were out before she could stop them. Mary Margaret got an assessing look in her eye, first looking over Emma's shoulder toward the table and then back to Emma, her eyes roving over Emma's face. She seemed to ponder her words carefully, opening her mouth to speak a couple times and making Emma want to shake the stuffing out of her. 

“I think I know why you like him.” She raised her finger to stop Emma's instant refusal. “And I also think you're scared shitless of that. Don't be. Or do. Just... be nice to him, Emma.” 

“I'm being perfectly nice!” 

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret laughed before going back to her gentle but serious expression. “But you know what? I think you look like you're about to bolt from your own house. And I also think he looks like a man who's waiting for the verdict on a death sentence every time he looks at you. Also like he wants to have you for his last meal. So just... know what you're going to say to him before you say it. Something tells me this Killian Jones is much more than a really hot treasure hunter with a big dick.” 

And with that, Mary Margaret took a giant swig of Emma's whiskey, taking the bottle with her back to the table and leaving Emma standing in her own kitchen, her arms wrapped around her middle and thinking about her friend's unfair (and entirely true) assessment. 

Dinner wound down and turned into whiskey and pie, the best part of the meal. Ruby and Victor couldn't partake in drinks because they had to be at work at midnight; Ruby insisted on two slices to make up for it. Emma helped served while Robin sliced; Mer and Ruby did some super inappropriate things with the whipped cream, and even Regina loosened up a little, letting Robin shoot Reddi-Whip straight into her mouth. When her brother waggled both eyebrows and asked for Rob to “aim for the back of his throat like a good lad,” even Emma was caught up in the disbelieving and loud laughter. Killian Jones fit in with her little ragtag family just swimmingly. 

Great. 

It seemed Emma had a decision to make. Whether to keep pretending that he was just her boss's brother tagging along for a good meal or whether he was the guy that she really, kind of desperately wanted to drag to her bedroom so he could help break in her sheets. They'd gone to his place before—she always went to the guy's place—but as she sipped at her whiskey and used her fork to break up her remaining pie crust into a thousand pieces, Emma realized something. He was already in her house. And the thought didn't terrify her, of him seeing it again. More of it. Like, bedroom more. 

“Okay, I'm out.” Emma looked up from her morose musings to see Mer push away from the table with a groan. “The boys are probably home from their friends' house looking for more food, God help me. Take me home, you two.” As if by cue, two sets of pagers started beeping crazily, and Ruby and Victor looked up, startled. 

“That'll be us, then,” Ruby sighed. “I knew it wouldn't last. Being on call on holidays sucks.” 

“Just be glad we didn't get called in before Regina's excellent pie,” Victor said, kissing Ruby's nose and then leaning over to kiss Regina's hair. Regina laughed; Emma would have expected her to deck him for touching her, but she suspected her boss was more relaxed than usual, and that it was due to a certain charming Englishman currently leaning toward her, his elbow on the table and his expression rapt as he talked. 

“Well, gentlemen. What say we let the ladies rest while we clear?” Jones said after the bustle of people leaving died down. David and Robin agreed, standing instantly and joining Jones in clearing the table of mostly empty dishes. Emma did her best to avoid notice, keeping her hands in her lap and looking down into her whiskey when Jones came up behind her and took her pie plate with a soft, “allow me, love.” 

“So, Regina,” Mary Margaret half-whispered once the guys headed into the kitchen. “I told you.” 

“I—yes,” Regina said. Emma didn't know what was going on but she could guess by the way her boss got flustered and actually looked like she was going to turn beet red any moment now. Regina tossed back the rest of her water, not having partaken of the boozing, and looked Mary Margaret dead in the eye. “He is not totally unappealing. But he smells like...Christmas trees. And he's too flirty.” 

“He's a park ranger, Regina. I told you that,” Mary Margaret laughed. “Tree sap is just a part of the job.” 

“Yes, well--” 

“He's a good man, Regina. Open yourself up to the possibility.” 

“God, I'm so glad you say that to other people and not just me,” Emma groaned. She and Regina shared a sympathetic grimace while Mary Margaret tried to look affronted. 

“You two are so similar that it just seemed natural to use my lines on her,” she said primly. “Anyway, that goes for the both of you. Emma, if you--” 

“Nope.” 

“Emma, come on!” 

“Nope.” 

“Don't push my brother on her, Mary Margaret. I told you, he's mooning after some girl who won't give him the time of day.” 

Emma winced at that, totally ignoring Mary Margaret's glare and raised eyebrow. She tossed her drink back, folding her arms defiantly. 

“Fine.” Mary Margaret sat back, but her skeptical look was interrupted by a giant yawn. “Wow, I'm exhausted.” 

“Well, dear, you did outdo yourself this year,” David said, coming up and wrapping her arms around her. She looked up and they shared such an affectionate look that Emma was momentarily arrested by seething envy. She'd been inured to the lovey-dovey crap from the two of them for years, but it was moments like this when she herself felt a little raw and open that it would hit. It was easy for Mary Margaret to talk about being open to love and true love and finding love when she'd found it when she was still in high school, after all. Her shiny-eyed optimism wasn't infectious, but it was definitely in character. She was lucky to have found a loving partner, even if it was Emma's brother. 

“I am fat, happy, and sleepy, the best of the seven dwarves,” Robin declared, coming from the kitchen and walking over to the couch to grab his coat. “Time to head home and walk it off.” 

“You're walking home?” Regina said, sounding baffled and mildly offended. “Do you live nearby?” 

“I walk a lot in my job, and in much rougher terrain than the sleepy sidewalks of Storybrooke,” Robin said, amused and smiling at Regina. They seemed to have some sort of silent conversation, and Emma wondered how and when it was that her boss seemed to have made such an instant connection with a man, especially one as different from her as Robin Locksley. 

“I'll drive you home.” 

“It's really no trouble--” 

“I know it isn't, or I wouldn't offer.” 

“I can--” 

This went on for a few minutes with Emma, David, Mary Margaret and Jones looking on as the two obviously fought what they both wanted. Finally, Robin relented, insisting on returning the favor by taking her on a tour of his favorite hiking trails later on. 

Emma almost said something about Regina needing to buy some non-heels, looking over at Jones and noticing a similar look of amusement on his face. She refrained, however, or maybe just forgot her quip when he returned her private look. 

“Come on, Killian. Let's go, then.” 

“Right. No.” 

“What do you mean, no?” 

“I'm not third wheeling. I'll call you tomorrow, Regina.” 

“Third wheeling! Don't be ridiculous, this isn't--” 

“Thanks for dragging me along, sis.” He patted her shoulder and smiled. “I'll text you to let you know when I'm home. And you—be careful of this one, she bites.” 

Those remaining watched as a somewhat uncomfortable Regina left, followed by a very happy-looking park ranger. He saluted the four of them and David called out, “Good luck!” just before they heard the door shut. 

“Well,” Mary Margaret said, leaning forward and bracing her hands on the table to stand up. “I'm going to take a quick nap while you guys finish the cleaning. Killian, we can take you home on our way to standing in line for Black Friday.” 

David groaned at that. “I was hoping you'd forget.” 

“David. I want that seventy-five inch 4K Ultra HD Samsung, and neither you nor the zombie shopping horde is going to stop me.” 

“You're quite a catch, aren't you?” Killian murmured, looking impressed as Mary Margaret staggered over to the couch to flop down. 

“Nothing keeps that woman from a good bargain,” Emma told him, smiling as they headed toward the kitchen to start the horrific clean-up. She was arrested by the beaming smile he gave her in return, enough that she stopped to grin back. _He's just so good-looking_ , she thought almost mutinously, irritated with herself for being drawn in by such a pretty face. 

As he rolled up his sleeves and tucked a dry dishtowel into the front of his pants, Emma tried to focus on why she shouldn't be so charmed by him, but it was hard. She stayed mostly silent while he and David began to do the dishes, Killian doing the washing with gusto and David drying as quickly as he put stuff away. Emma was emptying stuff into the trash and packing away what little leftovers remained, listening to their banter as her brother did his best to not make it obvious that he was vetting the man who was obviously interested in his sister. 

“So, how come you have an accent?” 

“Can't help it, I'm afraid,” Jones said, scratching his thumbnail on a particularly stubborn bit of green bean stuck to the pan. “Born and raised in England until I was ten.” 

“So Regina is--” 

“My half-sister. Her mum married my dad a few years before I was born, but she lived with her father here in America. Then we moved here, my elder brother included, because Cora wished to reconnect with her daughter. She was... a piece of work, not unlike my own father,” he said, and Emma heard an undercurrent there, something unpleasant. She'd had no idea about any of this. 

“We didn't really know each other nor did we get along, but family's family. After my father took off and her mother went her own way, I was left being raised by Liam. Regina would join us for holidays, but she was in college by then. But she has a very strong sense of loyalty, so we're as close as can be expected. She can be a royal bitch, but she's _my_ royal bitch.” David laughed at that, bumping shoulders with Jones as they continued to wash. 

Brotherly approval, check. 

“So, you own a boat?” 

“Aye. I was in the navy and after I got discharged, I... floundered a bit. Liam—my brother, an uptight git—you'd've liked him—he was killed in the line of duty.” Emma felt a frown pulling at her mouth. Jones seemed too young, too carefree to have gone through such losses. “I spent a lot of time angry at the world. Honestly, if it wasn't for Regina, I might have given into too many vices, too many temptations to be bad. Well, I still do that,” he said, laughing. Emma sensed it was to relieve the sudden tension in the kitchen, but she kept that to herself. 

“Enough about me,” Jones continued, handing David a handful of dripping silverware. “How is it that you and your sister have different last names?” 

David looked over at Emma, a question in his face. She knew he was silently asking her permission to tell a relative stranger her life story, and normally she would have derailed the conversation or simply left the room, but for the first time in forever, she didn't feel like either. So, she simply nodded with a soft, close-lipped smile, sensing, somehow, that Jones could be trusted with the information. David, true to his nature, didn't give away too much. He protected her too fiercely, especially when it came to men, but the fact that he felt like telling this guy anything at all spoke volumes to her. David's (and Mary Margaret's) approval meant much more to her than she ever cared to admit. 

“My parents took Emma in when we were kids. She'd been bounced around to many foster families, but I guess I rose a stink when they tried to tell my mom that she had to leave. So, we adopted her.” David looked over and gave one of his big, heroic grins, and she grinned in return, shaking her head at the big goof. “I have, of course, regretted every day since.” 

“Hey,” Emma said, laughing. She tossed an empty Gladware container at his head and he dodged it easily, tossing his wet dishrag at her in turn. 

“So we're both orphans,” Jones said quietly. Emma turned to him and met his steady gaze head-on, the both of them seeming to forget that there was a third person in the kitchen. 

“You both have families,” David said firmly, interrupting their small moment. But something shifted for Emma during that small stand-off; she felt something inside her slip into place, as if that one little line about their commonality suddenly made everything so clear for her. He'd been through shit, too. She could tell by the wistful tone to his voice when he talked about his brother, could hear that he'd been through shit in the way he talked about being angry at the world. She could definitely identify with that. Yeah, David had made her family, but she'd railed against the unfair hand she'd been dealt for a long time. If it hadn't been for him always being there for her, she'd probably be in jail or dead or worse. 

The kitchen now mostly clean, the three of them returned to the living room, Jones groaning as he flopped down on Emma's recliner. David went to shake Mary Margaret awake; she batted at his face and murmured a hoarse “go away” while Emma seated herself by Mary Margaret's feet. 

“Seventy-five inch 4K Ultra,” David murmured in a teasing voice. “1500 dollars off.” 

“I'm awake,” she said, sitting up and grimacing. “Let's go.” 

“I'll get your coat,” David said quietly and again, Emma was struck by the love and tenderness in her brother's voice. “Jones? Where do you live, we'll drop you off on the way.” 

“Afraid I'm not on the way to the Best Buy, mate,” Jones said, standing and stretching his arms above his head. Emma tried to not stare at the sliver of skin revealed as his sweater rode up with the movement, but she didn't care enough to stop. Not even when he caught her and cocked one corner of his mouth up. Then he turned to David and said, “I live down by the harbor.” 

“Oh,” David said, his face falling. “That's okay.” 

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret said hurriedly, her face also having fallen but screwing up into a smile despite her temporary dismay. “I'm sure the TV won't sell out or anything.” 

“No, no, I can walk, it's no big--” 

“Don't be ridiculous, it's miles away! And it's dark, and there are people lurking and--” 

“I assure you, I'm well able to defend myself should these lurkers attack me.” 

“We're not going to leave you high and dry--” 

“But your television, Mary Margaret. Seventy-five inches. I can't compare with such splendor.” 

_You damned well almost do_ , Emma thought with a grin. Then, before she could stop it, she heard herself blurt out, “I'll take him home.” 

She was met with three silent people turning to look at her, two of them with incredulous looks of “what the hell are you talking about” and one with a blank look and raised eyebrow. 

She felt heat rise to her cheeks but it was already out there, might as well keep going. “I'll be fine to drive in like, an hour, if you don't mind waiting?” 

David folded his arms and gave her his best dad look of disapproval, but she ignored it. 

“Well, if you're sure...” Mary Margaret said, and Emma wanted to laugh because it was so blatantly obvious that her friend was _dying_ to go stand in line for her TV. 

“I'm sure. I have brass knuckles in my pocket if he tries anything, _Dad_ ,” she said, trying to keep a straight face as David kept up with the protective act. 

“Fine. Text me to let me know when you get home safe.” Code for: _I will have my phone glued on my eyeballs until you let me know that the man I was just being all friendly-like with is no longer alone with you in your house, possibly seducing you._

“Will do.” Emma then did her best to usher the two people she loved most in the world out the door, practically slamming it on them the moment they walked outside. 

And then it was just the two of them. 

As Emma returned to her living room, she suddenly realized how stupid it was that she insisted on taking Jones home. What the hell were they going to do until she felt sober enough to drive? 

Well, she could think of a few things. 

“So. Netflix?” 

Jones looked up as Emma returned to the living room, smiling softly and nodding without a word. He sat down on her sofa and she joined him, not exactly stuffing herself into the corner but still keeping a cushion between them. 

Lord knows what she'd do if they like, brushed arms or something. 

And she definitely shouldn't sleep with him again, right? 

“I need water. You want some water?” 

_Yeah, Emma. Keep yourself occupied. Wouldn't want to do something regrettable, like climb into his lap or tell him the way he rolled up his shirtsleeves and cleaned up without being asked was extremely appealing._ She didn't want him to be so appealing. She wished he had stayed as her one-night stand, the guy who she occasionally asked for dick pics. 

Didn't she? 

“Water would be good.” 

Emma practically jumped off the couch, glad for the excuse to not be in the same room as Killian Jones (BDKJ?) for a few minutes. 

When she returned with two glasses of ice water, she very deliberately set out two coasters and carefully placed the glasses on them, stalling and hoping it would keep conversation to a minimum. Jones had put on an old John Wayne movie, and it took her a minute to place it. 

“ _The Quiet Man_?” 

“Aye.” 

“Great movie.” 

“Indeed.” 

“I love boxing.” 

“So do I.” 

“Nice.” 

“Mm.” 

He seemed...stand-offish. Which kind of made her mad. He had literally been inside of her only a few months before, and he'd just had Thanksgiving dinner at her house. And now here he was, being cold and a little formal, when it was just the two of them? Where was the smooth-talking, dirty-talking guy she'd picked up in a bar? 

Emma crossed her arms and lifted her feet to prop them on the coffee table, suddenly feeling surly. 

But as the movie continued, the amusing and somewhat annoying stubbornness of Maureen O'Hara started to get to Emma. She found herself thinking, “God, just get over your need for independence already,” and then immediately heard Ruby in her head, rolling her eyes and calling Emma a hypocrite. The mental image was so strong (and possibly an actual memory) that Emma began to laugh. 

“Laughing in anticipation of the big fight scene, Swan?” Jones murmured, which only made Emma laugh more. She was suddenly struck by it, by how utterly ridiculous the entire situation was, and when John Wayne threw the first punch, it just made her giggle more. 

“Honestly, Swan, this is the best part,” Jones complained, which only made her snort. She was laughing and laughing, her hands covering her face as she tried to contain it, but it was kind of liberating, too. What a fucking idiot she could be, honestly. 

“I'm sorry,” she tried to say, but her giggles got in the way. Jones huffed, leaning over to grab the remote and pause the movie. 

He looked over at her, his brows drawn together in both irritation and confusion. His eyes were darting all over her face, and when she realized he was genuinely concerned, something inside of her softened. She stopped laughing. 

“I'm sorry,” she repeated, looking into his eyes and willing him to understand that she was trying to say more than her words. She wasn't sure if it worked, so she did the next best thing to making him understand. She scooted over and leaned up, keeping eye contact and making sure that he still wanted her. 

Her lips brushed over his tentatively, and when his mouth opened and a soft sigh escaped, she leaned into it, kissing him with purpose and feeling a ridiculous amount of warmth when he kissed her back. He leaned toward her, his hand coming up and his fingers tugging on her hair. His lips moved both with and against hers, their breaths mingling as they panted into each other's mouths. She took one second to pause before going back in, this time sweeping her tongue into his mouth and feeling it all the way down to her pelvis when he groaned, his tongue meeting hers, slow and wet. She found herself clinging to him as they deepened the kiss, this one seeming much more intimate than the last time, more of an invitation than a desperate need borne from circumstance. 

She almost whimpered when he pulled away slightly, resting his forehead on hers, his eyelashes tickling her face. 

“I've been dying to do that all day,” she whispered, and she hadn't meant to say it, but that didn't make it any less true. 

“I've been dying to do that for months,” he retorted, a smug grin evident in his voice. She shook her head fondly, trying to be annoyed but totally unable to summon up the actual irritation. If she was being honest, she'd wanted that, too. She just hadn't realized it until now. “God knows I tried to forget that damned bar wench I took home, but she kept texting me.” He was just so sincere, and while experience told her to run far away, instinct kept her right where she was. 

Didn't mean she was going to make it easy on him. 

“You've gotta one up me, don't you?” 

“Aye, lass. Words are all I have, when clearly, you're far better than I.” 

“Clearly.” 

“You weren't supposed to agree with me.” 

“Then don't say things that aren't true.” 

“I'll always say things that are true to you, love. Like how you taste like pumpkin pie, and now I want pie.” 

“We can have pie,” she said, pulling away with a smile. She almost faltered when she saw vulnerability written clearly on his face. He offered his own soft smile, his mouth quirking into the expression she was more used to, his eyes crinkling in amusement. 

“Netflix and pie. The Thanksgiving hook-up.” 

“Right,” she laughed. She stood and padded over to the kitchen, pulling a half-eaten pie tin from the fridge and two forks from her utensils drawer. 

When David barged in around three a.m. later that night, he found Emma and Killian asleep on the couch, the TV on the Netflix menu. Killian had his arm around her shoulders and she was slung across his chest, a knitted throw tossed across their legs and an empty pie tin balanced between them. He shook his head and smiled, removing the pie tin and putting it back in the kitchen. He left without waking them, satisfied that his sister hadn't been serial killed or taken advantage of, and he resolved to mock her endlessly for snoring on the poor guy who she'd only met that night. Hadn't she? 

As he drove the sleeping Mary Margaret and his brand new TV back home, he wondered whether Killian had a different name, because he was starting to wonder if the the J in BDJ stood for Jones. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> merry merry, everyone!

Emma awoke sometime around six in the morning. And she was hot as hell. 

She blinked her eyes open, groggy and yawning and smacking her mouth. She could taste faint traces of pumpkin pie and she smiled, remembering why. 

Then she _remembered why._

She could feel soft warmth beneath her cheek, could smell pie and the man underneath her. Jones. 

Her mind went into “crap, I fell asleep, gotta get outta here” mode, but then she remembered that she was already home. She hadn't fallen asleep at his place this time; she had fallen asleep on her own couch. After totally cuddling against him when _the Quiet Man_ finished and they went right into _Roman Holiday_. It was there in the “suggested titles” and he just kind of looked over at her, raised his eyebrows, wiggled the remote tantalizingly, and grinned when she shrugged in response. The movie began to play and she felt so warm and sleepy and good that she just sort of...shuffled into him some more. Didn't put up a protest when he slung his arm behind her shoulders. Complained when her legs got cold, and turned her face into his chest to hide her smile when he dropped a throw across their legs. Kept digging into the nearly-finished pumpkin pie with her finger, sort-of-maybe purposefully licking her fingers clean, enjoying the hitch in his breath every time she did it. 

And somewhere between sighing aloud over Gregory Peck and Jones teasing her for being into old men, Emma was lulled to sleep by a belly full of pie and whiskey and a heart full of confusion. 

It was no wonder she wanted to bolt upon waking and realizing that Jones was not only still there, but that she didn't want him to leave. She'd gotten a taste of him during Thanksgiving dinner, and not even in the good way. She'd been caught off guard by his charm, by his sense of humor, by him fitting in with everyone she'd chosen to have in her life. It had been a while since she'd felt anything but attraction and the need to scratch an itch with a man; Jones had definitely been an itch to scratch, but now it was more like one of those things that doesn't go away and she needed to see a doctor, but she was going to keep putting it off because it couldn't be _that_ bad, right? 

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured above her, all groggy and sleepy and appealing. She looked up, startled because he was awake and she was still wrapped around him. And that was a terrible thing, because he somehow managed to look terribly good in the dim blue dark of her living room. The shadows hid his eyes but she could still feel the full force of them on her; he was scruffier than before, the dark somehow softening him into something more approachable, like he wasn't the hottest guy who'd ever lived, just a nice boy who looked like he belonged right there, like waking up with her in his arms was the best thing that had ever happened to him. 

Crap. Fantastic. 

“We fell asleep?” he murmured, his voice full of the grit of a man in the morning, his brows drawing down. Then a wicked grin lit his face as he said, “You snore.” 

“I do not,” she scoffed, sitting up and groaning as she tilted her neck to the side. 

“Are you sore? I'm afraid I don't make for a good pillow,” he said, real concern in his voice. She softened for a second, thinking, _no way you can be real_. 

_I gotta get outta here_ . 

“You're not bad,” she said softly, backing away from him and standing. “But, um. It's early. And I have work today. I should--” 

“Right.” She could still hear sleep in his voice but there was now a note of clipped defeat, and she hated it. She didn't really have to go to work, but there was always paperwork to catch up on. But she also knew she was just being her. She really, really hated it. She kind of ached to stop him as he stood; she watched him take the throw blanket with him (hadn't there been a pie tin, too?) and fold it quickly. He laid it carefully across the back of the sofa, not looking at her as he said, “I should get going.” 

“Sorry I fell asleep on you,” she tried, hating how forced she sounded. 

“No worries, love,” he said, turning to offer her a thin smile. “Thank you for the pie. I'll just be on my way, then.” 

“Oh. Yeah, okay,” she said, uncertain. “Let me just get my keys and I'll--” 

“Don't worry about me. I can make do.” He turned to go, and Emma closed her eyes, looking for the bravery she was always told she had, trying to will herself to ask him to stay. 

“Are you sure I can't drive you home?” 

“It's all right, love.” He grabbed his boots and sat back down, going about the business of tying them. Emma stood there and watched him, her eyes darting over his body as he methodically tied his laces like he'd done it a thousand times, his fingers nimble and quick. She remembered that about them, how nimble they could be. 

_Quit thinking about sex, Emma._

He turned to look at her and smiled, but it wasn't that same smile that had drawn her to him in the first place. He nodded at her once and stood again, his hand coming up to rake through his disastrous hair. 

“So long, Swan.” 

When she heard her front door close, she flopped down on her couch, her elbow coming to rest over her eyes. 

So long, Big Dick Jones. 

Xxxx 

Regina was suspiciously cheery the following Monday. Emma had gone into the office later that day, but Regina had never shown up, probably because the courts weren't open on the unofficial start of the holiday season and Black Friday was always a light day as a result. Emma spent a few hours tidying up the office and against her better judgment went to the grocery store, stocking up on coffee and Regina's disgusting egg nog creamer and Kind bars. Even though driving on busy thoroughfares during the shopping apocalypse had been a terrible idea, at least it kept her from thinking about things. 

Killian Jones-related things. 

One night stands aren't supposed to show up to Thanksgiving Dinner. 

_One night stands aren't supposed to be your go-to for titillating pictures to get you off, either_ . _One night stands aren't supposed to be interesting damned people._

Emma was confused and irritated at her inability to keep a certain treasure hunter off her mind, so she holed up in her apartment that entire weekend, ignoring her friends' various offers and threats to drag her outside. By the time Monday morning rolled around, she was somewhat refreshed and ready to move on with her previous lone wolf existence, determined to meet her boss's accusing glances at mistreating her brother with a brave face and possibly lots of sarcasm. 

“Good morning, Emma,” Regina practically trilled when Emma marched in, feeling ready for a fight. Regina's chipper voice was enough to stop her short. 

“Morning,” she said warily, wondering if it was like, the smile delivered before the sucker punch. But no; Regina practically sailed over to the Mr. Coffee and poured out two steaming cups. She handed Emma her “He's no good to me dead” Boba Fett mug and offered a genuine smile. In fact, everything about Regina seemed genuine, and soft. It was weird. As Emma sat at her desk, eying her boss and trying to figure out when the other shoe was going to drop, Regina actually started humming. What the fuck. 

Then Regina's phone chirped, and she smiled and bit her lip when she looked at whatever was there. 

“Oh my God,” Emma muttered, the light clicking in her head. “You went hiking, didn't you?” To her eternal amusement, Regina blushed. _Blushed_. Emma grinned; as disconcerting as it was to see her tough-as-shit boss getting all blushy over Robin fucking Locksley, it was also kind of nice. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. Rob was a goof, but he also happened to be a great guy who was not into meek women. Emma was suddenly really glad she never once fucked him. 

“My weekend was...interesting.” Regina went back into tough girl mode, turning to face Emma as she seated herself behind her desk. “And you? I take it things went well, since it took about a hundred texts and six phone calls to my wayward brother before he acknowledged that he wasn't lying dead in a ditch somewhere.” 

“Actually--” 

“Maybe you're just what he needs, to get him over this girl who's been treating him like crap. I don't know; Killian is many, many things, but he's a good man. He's had it rough, you know; it's why I worry. Just tell me if he ever does anything stupid, and I'll kick his ass for you. I love the idiot, but he exasperates me like no other.” Regina looked down and started tapping on her keyboard, and Emma never had the chance to deny or refute or lie. Maybe it was better that way. 

_Great. Now Regina's going to find out that I shit all over him, and she'll kill_ me _instead._

The rest of the work day passed in a blur; Emma denied two more invitations to go out and instead went to wallow at home after work, reaching for a container of leftover mashed potatoes and gravy (and ignoring the last piece of pie—she'd probably never be able to eat fucking pumpkin pie again, dammit). 

On Tuesday, Emma was ready to repeat her new regime of wallowing in self-pity, but her friends had other ideas. 

“Come on, then, lassie,” Mer said, grabbing Emma by the elbow and dragging her over to Ruby's bright red Cabriolet. “Let Mama Merida and Auntie Ruby help you deal with this melodrama of your own making.” 

“Yeah, Emma,” Ruby grinned, looking at the mirror in her visor and wiping away a stray smudge of lipstick off her teeth. “Time to spill. Since you're not currently hiding away in a den of sin with a hot pirate-type, I assume you fucked things up again. But David says he walked in on an interesting scene on Friday morning, so tell all.” 

“David Nolan is a gossipy bitch,” Emma muttered, settling into the back seat and buckling up hastily as Ruby peeled off. Ruby drove like a lunatic during the full moon on a _good_ day. 

They ended up in some dive off Main Street, far, far away from other dives where Emma met other hot pirate-types. The pickings were slim, which was definitely what she wanted. Now that her girls were taking care of her with offers to ply her with as much booze as possible to drown out her sorrows (neither had teased or mocked her for the way she left things with Killian, which told her that things were serious if none of them could laugh about it), Emma knew that getting blitzed and taking some guy home (even if she wanted to, which she didn't) was not the way to deal with whatever it was she was going through. 

Because she couldn't quite figure it out. Well, that was a lie—she _kind of_ could; Emma Swan and boys just didn't mix, not in the long run. “Love 'em and leave 'em” was her _m.o._ Not on purpose, really; it was just kind of how she rolled. And she'd been just fine with that for ten years now, ever since Neal Cassidy and the Great Watch Heist of '05. Emma learned her lesson back then: trust no man. Just let them inside of her one time, that was it. 

As she stared down her fourth (sixth?) glass of Bushmill's, however, she started to wonder at the wisdom of the love 'em and leave 'em life if one of the “'em” in question was going to go around being related to bosses and showing up at family gatherings. Especially when she didn't hate it. Not at all. 

Sometime around her eight hundred and forty-sixth drink, Emma totally forgot what her problem was, or rather—she remembered with stunning clarity. Because her problem walked right into that dive bar and stopped dead in the middle of the doorway, his expression blank as he stared at her. 

“Oh, Christ Almighty,” muttered Mer. “Let's get her out of here.” 

“Yeah,” Ruby agreed. Emma could feel a protest beginning in her chest, or maybe it was the steady buzz of her heart as it beat whiskey around in her veins. 

“No. I was here first,” she said, laughing a little at the slur in her voice. She tossed back the rest of her drink and looked down in confusion, surprised when it turned out to be water. How long had she been drinking water? Tricky, tricky girls, the unspoken rule being that when one of them was getting sloppy, they just started ordering the sloppy one water. She must be bad off if she was on water, then. 

She looked up and saw Jones clench his jaw a couple of times before heading toward the bar. 

And then she was heading toward the bar, too. 

“Swan, stop.” 

“Emma--” 

“I'm fine, guys. Thank you. I'll... later. Later.” 

She lurched up and paused, making sure the ground wouldn't spin out from under her before making her way toward Jones. Her eyes and gait were clear as she went, so she figured the water was doing its job. She could feel sobriety start to rev its engine as she made her approach 

She saw some barfly sidle up to him and felt her eyes narrow, this stabbing jealously hitting her square in the chest. _That's new_ , the laughing, distant, and futurely sober part of her said. _That's mine_ , the drunken, messy part of her snarled. 

She smiled smugly when she watched as Jones rebuffed the I-can-see-way-too-much-in-that-skirt woman, but when Emma slumped down onto the stool next to him, her smile faltered. She knew he had to know it was her, but he wasn't turning to face her. And she fucking deserved it. 

_Walk away. Run, run away. Before it starts to hurt._

Problem was, it already hurt. And it was her own fault; she had hurt him. 

Suddenly, she felt a new buzz burning through her—maybe sobriety kicking in, maybe determination setting in—whatever it was, she didn't want him to hurt anymore. 

“Hey,” she said softly. He stiffened but did not turn to face her, just reached down for his drink and sipped at it slowly. 

“I'm sorry,” she continued. He finished off his drink and nodded, but still, he didn't face her. 

Emma sighed, frustrated. Maybe if she wasn't drunk, she would have walked away, kept her pride intact. Problem was, she was just trashed enough to not have her guard up, and she knew it. It's what made her feel brave, brave enough to actually do something about the way she was feeling. Which, in this case, was terrible. Because she didn't want Jones to feel rejected. He was too good to be rejected. Who the hell was she to reject him? 

Just some lost girl who's never felt like she really mattered to any guy and never would. 

She wanted to make him see her, to make him see inside, and not just in a sex way, but she wanted that, too. Sitting next to him, she was reminded of just how well their bodies fit together, and she wanted that. She wanted him to see the real her and she wanted him to be on her, really. But he would never do that if she didn't do something brave. So, she reached around and shoved her fingers in her back pocket, feeling for her phone and pulling it out. She unlocked it and went for her messages, squinting and looking for the BDJ through her bleary eyes. 

_hey._

She heard a chime next to her and he went for the inner pocket of his leather jacket, stiffening and then chuffing when he saw who the text was from. 

_im sos orry_

Wow, drunk. Drunk texting someone was very weird when you were sitting right next to them, but it also seemed fitting, somehow. Emma wracked her brain for something brilliant and perfect to say that would get him to look at her, to turn around with those eyes of his that made her feel naked, even when she was already naked, looking at her all dark and intense. She just really wanted him to look at her again. 

_you smell good_

Christ, Swan. Focus. But he really did smell good; that leather thing, combined with clean. She noticed that his hair was damp, curled slightly where it was a bit too long. She had a sudden longing to run her fingers there, to tug on it a little. She shook herself out of the daydream and put her fingers to other use. 

_your hairs getting long_

Wow. She would count to five and then slowly back away. 

But then he chuckled when he glanced down at his phone, finally leaning over and bracing his elbows on the bartop. 

**You're drunk, love.**

_yep_

**Fancy meeting you here**

_my girls dragged me out_

**Oh? Kicking and screaming?**

_something like that_

**Was it the same the night we met?**

She wasn't sure why, but that hurt. 

_no I wanted to be there_

**Ah. You could have gone home tonight, you know. Ruby's not that strong, you could take her. Mer might put up a fight, but I've faith in you.**

_true but then I wouldnt have run into you_

She bit her lip, resisting the urge to look over at him. They were both facing the row of bottles behind the bar, inches away from each other and huddled over their phones. Like they were perfect strangers. And they were, really; it just didn't feel like it. Even now, as her mind slowly started clearing, leaving the regrettable buzz of alcohol coursing through her veins. 

Jones sighed heavily, his head hanging briefly before he straightened. He began tapping again, and she flicked her eyes back to her screen, watching the three thought-dots as she tried not to scream while waiting. 

**I wanted to call, but I wasn't sure you would answer.**

Emma closed her eyes briefly, feeling a warm glow sweep through her that had nothing to do with whiskey. Pulling her lip between her teeth, she began to tap. 

_i wouldve answered_

**Really?** She could practically see his eyebrow raise at that. 

_really_

**Interesting.**

_what would you have said_

**Something inappropriate, no doubt.**

_what else is new_

Emma felt giddy, really damned giddy. Why was it so much easier to talk to him this way? 

**I'm an old dog, with no new tricks.**

_i like your tricks_

This time she could practically _feel_ his eyebrows raising. 

**Are you trying to pick me up again?**

_hey you picked me up, remember_

**I recall no such thing.**

_sorry, its true_

**You picked me up, and then you ruthlessly used me for my body. I'm so ashamed.**

_you have no shame_

**True, but it's hardly complimentary to remind a man of such foibles.**

_you text like an english professor_

**Well, I am English. Were that I could italicize the word “am” here, but alas. Behold, the limits of communication via text messages.**

_omg stop that_

**No. You like it.**

She did. She really, really did. 

And like that, Emma was grinning. Full on, shit-eating grinning. Damn, Jones was good. She finally looked over and was pleasantly surprised when he was looking right back, and his eyebrows were, indeed, sky-high. She felt that spark—the same one she'd felt the night they met. Like they had done this a million times before. Like if she would just get over herself, the man in front of her could offer her a lot more than one night of fun. 

She quirked her own eyebrow and then turned back to her phone. 

_let's have it, jones._

She heard a sharp intake of breath from his end, followed by silence. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him shake his head slowly, and after he reached behind himself for his wallet, he flipped a couple of tens onto the bar. Her heart sank as he stood. 

Without looking at her, he turned and walked away. 

Only he didn't leave. He headed toward the bathroom. 

Emma felt sobriety start to slap her awake. She asked the bartender for a glass of water and avoided the sympathetic looks Ruby and Mer were shooting her way. She gulped the water immediately, almost choking on the soothing coolness sliding down her throat. 

When she thunked her glass back down on the bar, she felt her phone vibrate. 

She swallowed thickly. Tapped on the picture to make it bigger, not that it was small by any stretch of the imagination. 

There was Jones' dick, thick and glorious and gripped tightly in his hand. 

_i'll call us a cab?_

**No need. I had a Coke. I'll drive.**

Emma didn't even say anything to her girls, just headed straight for the door and barely gave them a reassuring smile. They gave her a thumbs-up each, Mer's “good luck with the oral coverage!” going unacknowledged by her. 

She heard him approach as she waited by his car, the same beat-up 70s-era GTO he'd had the other time she'd gone home with him. It occurred to her that she ought to feel weird, going home with the same guy more than once. She hadn't done that ever, and the break in her routine ought to have made her freak out or at the very least, uncomfortable. But when he reached over to unlock the passenger door so she could slide in, it seemed incredibly comfortable. And good, to tell the truth. 

They were both silent as he drove toward the harbor, the tension in the air thick but anticipatory. Emma wished she was completely sober this time, but there was something to be said for being filled with liquid courage, unintentional though it might have been. 

She let herself out of the car when he pulled to a stop, walking confidently to the door. Again, he reached around her without a word, letting her lead the way into his house. 

They didn't speak the entire time. Not with words, anyway. But as he undressed her in the dark of his bedroom, his heavy breaths mingling with hers the only sounds marring the silence, Emma could feel her body trying to tell him what her heart was screaming: _I want this_. 

She woke up for the third time wrapped around him sometime around 5 a.m. He looked so content and peaceful in the green glow of the alarm clock on his nightstand; her head was pounding with oncoming nausea, and she knew she was going to be miserable the rest of the day. But not because of Big Dick Jones, just whiskey. She didn't want to be sick all over his apartment, though. 

She slipped out of bed, knowing he would take it the wrong way, but she didn't want to wake him. She could make it up to him the next day. 

She texted for a cab and waited impatiently outside, despite the chill coming off the ocean that was making her shiver in her too-thin coat. 

_I'll call you tomorrow_ , she thought toward the house as she got in the taxi, thinking to herself that maybe, just maybe, she should change his name to Killian Jones in her phone. 

Xxxx 

She didn't call him. 

Not that she didn't want to; she simply got caught up in work (and in desperately trying to not be hungover on a Wednesday). She thought about him sporadically through the day, though; wondering whether he was pissed when he woke and she was gone again, wondering just how far she could push before he pulled away completely. The thought left her feeling bleak, but honestly, she didn't know how to handle this kind of shit. 

Emma didn't know how to deal with a boy she liked. She was fifteen, shoving the hot boy in her algebra class because she didn't know how else to behave. 

Because she liked Killian Jones. Emma Swan had a crush on a boy. A boy she'd already fucked twice. 

At one point during the work day, she reached for her phone to shoot him a quick, reassuring, perfectly-worded-with-just-the-right-balance-of-humor-and-sincerity text, but then the work line rang and she got caught up in work again. She almost forgot to eat lunch, she was so busy. So by the time Emma's stomach started growling audibly again, she was a little surprised to see that it was almost seven. 

_Crap_ , was her first thought. _Jones probably thinks I'm just using him for sex._

Which...she had been considering doing after their first night together. Calling him up the following night instead of just texting dirty. She had tried to reason with herself that she wanted to do it because she'd never done that before, not since Neal—sleeping with a guy more than once. But then that annoying voice in the back of her head started whispering that she was lying, that it wasn't the real reason. 

Only now did she realize the _actual_ reason: if she had had sex with him again, she would start to notice that he was a decent guy, worthy of an actual date. More than one. Many dates, many ways in which to get to know each other, both nakedly and factually. 

This was why at the late end of a very long day, when Emma should have turned left out of the parking lot, she went right instead, heading down toward the shore, where Killian lived. She sat in her car outside of his house for a few minutes, contemplating texting him that she was coming over, but then she asked herself if he'd even answer her. So, she decided to give him the chance to reject her to her face—she got out of her car and headed for the front door. 

He seemed surprised to see her, his eyes widening and sparkling for a second while his lip twitched, but he gave no indication whether he was glad to see her or not. 

_You did love him and leave him, Emma. Twice now._

She felt a flush of shame burn through her. Emma may have been a grown-up in theory, but nothing in life had ever prepared her for this. Being left behind, yes. Being abandoned—sure. But this? Wanting a guy? Knowing she kind of fucked up and wanted to take it back? She had no idea how to proceed. So, she went with the old stand-by in uncomfortable situations: act like she was there to take him in for a bounty. 

“You gonna let me in, or do I have to bust out my baton and handcuffs?” 

At that, she saw one corner of his mouth twitch. She kept looking at him, knowing her eyes were pleading and hoping that he could read her body when she was fully-clothed and standing, not just when she was panting and ready. That thought brought up all the ways he'd made her tremble, but she didn't need that at the moment, and that nearly made her bolt. She realized she wasn't there for sex: she was there because she'd had a crazy day, and she just...wanted to be around him. 

His eyes searched hers for a few seconds before he pursed his lips in a thoughtful frown, nodding and opening the door wider to let her in. Relieved, she smiled at him, wishing she had a wide, sexy smile to reassure him, but she was just too tired. Gratefully, she walked into his house and shrugged out of her coat, heading straight instead of off to the left. She knew where his bedroom was; she wanted to see the rest of the house. 

She found herself walking into a very comfortable living room, not at all surprised that it was cozy and had a lived-in look. She was relieved to see that he didn't have one of those edgy, modern design aesthetics going like Victor did; wood floors with rugs scattered around, a cheerful fire blazing, a ridiculously large television paused on what she was pretty sure was an old episode of _Deadliest Catch_. She rolled her eyes at his predictability and turned to make some crack about how you could take the sailor out of the sea, but she stopped short when she saw the look on his face. 

He was standing there with his arms crossed, regarding her warily. For some reason, the fact that he was in jeans and a ratty old Depeche Mode t-shirt got to her. He seemed so comfortable, just hanging out in his house on a Wednesday night watching the Discovery Channel. 

She had interrupted his evening. Maybe he enjoyed alone time, and she'd ruined it. 

“I--” _shouldn't have come_. She cleared her throat. “I wanted to apologize for bailing on you. I just--” 

“It's okay.” 

“No, it's really not.” She sighed, the day and her own dumb shit getting to her all at once. She flopped down on the couch, liking how warm and worn the cushions were beneath her. Being in his place was comforting. “I just... drank way too much last night. I swear, that's not something I make a habit of doing. Then I saw you and...” 

“Told you, love. You needn't explain yourself to me.” She smiled at his small smile, her lips quirking when he approached her and seated himself right next to her on the couch. She could feel his body heat radiating toward her, and she was glad that he hadn't sat down on on the other cushion that was much farther away. She turned her torso until she could prop her elbow on the back of the couch behind her, facing him so she could gauge his reactions to her, see the truth in his eyes. 

“I hope I didn't interrupt anything good.” 

He laughed lightly, his eyes losing their wary look as he fixed her with an intense stare. “Research. I was researching for work.” 

“Because crab fishing relates to treasure hunting?” 

“Ah. The lady is an expert in excellent television shows.” 

“I enjoy the melodrama you get when you put men in dangerous situations. Makes me feel right at home.” 

He cocked an eyebrow at that, so she laughed before explaining. 

“I do work for your sister. I, too, am a bail bondsperson. Did I ever tell you that?” 

“You did not.” His voice was softer when he spoke, still looking at her like he was trying to read everything going on in her mind. She'd never really had a guy who wasn't actively trying to get into her pants look at her like that before. Not that she didn't think Jones would jump at the chance again, it's just...she was the one who had showed up at his place unannounced, so she was pretty sure he didn't have plans to jump her. 

Or maybe he did. She saw a spark in his eyes, that moment when things changed from polite chit-chat to something more intimate when she said, “I guess we don't really know each other all that well, then.” 

“I'd be honored to hear anything you want to tell me, Swan.” 

This time, she took him to the bedroom, his fingers warm in her hand as she took the lead. She had arrived weary and looking for... she wasn't sure, exactly. Some place that wasn't her empty house to rest her head, maybe. But as she peeled off her sweater and yanked off her boots with impatience, she felt a second wind hitting her. Maybe it was the way he simply stood there, the lights on this time (she had flipped the switch, ignoring a pang because he seemed totally shocked by it), waiting patiently and watching her every move. Maybe it was the way he seemed to sense that she needed him, or maybe it was the way that he just knew that she wanted to be in control, his fingers gentle where hers were demanding, his eyes on her every move as she twisted herself this way and that. 

As she was riding him, her hips desperately rocking against his, wanting to feel every single place she was tingling all at once, grabbing at his chest and raking her nails across his skin, he seemed to sense that she was overwhelmed, that she didn't know which part of her needed the most stimulation. So when he put his hands on her hips and started to guide her, murmuring, “Shh, love. I've got you. I've got you,” Emma nearly sobbed at it. A tightness in her chest started up at the exact moment she started to fall, her hips working in tandem with the squeezing of his fingers, his breathing heavy and his throat making low moans of pleasure as she came and came. 

This time, as she fell asleep curled against him, she heard him whisper, “Don't leave me this time, Swan.” 

xxxx 

Her phone rang at about six a.m. Loudly. Blaring the Killers. 

Emma woke with a start, jerking out of Jones' embrace and scrambling over the side of the bed. She nearly fell off as she fished her phone out of her pants, grinning when she heard a very sleepy Englishman chuckling somewhere above her. 

It was Regina. Groaning, Emma slid her thumb across the screen to answer. 

“Hmm.” 

“Emma. Can you come in early today? We had some activity on the--” 

“Yep.” Emma moaned, trying to balance her phone to her ear while still hanging off the bed. She heard Jones laugh again as she huffed, then felt his hands on her hips as he tried to pull her back up. She ended up flopping back up and flailing a little as she landed, laughingly trying to hold onto her phone and hoping Regina hadn't heard anything. The woman had ears like a hawk; Emma had no doubt she'd know who it was that Emma had slept with the night before. 

God, it was the first time she'd ever stayed over the entire night at a guy's house. 

_Get out now._

_I don't wanna_ , she told herself mutinously. In fact, she was kind of pissed at Regina for cutting it short. She'd always heard morning sex was an excellent thing, and now she would be cheated out of finding out. 

_There's always next time._

She grinned at that thought. 

“Miss Swan?” 

“Yeah, sorry. You woke me up.” 

“And me.” 

“Jo-- _shh_ ,” Emma hissed. _Please don't have heard him._ “I'll just... start getting ready.” 

Emma ended the call and just laid there a minute, her mind racing with just having woken up next to a man and the fact that she'd have to leave. She turned to say something—an apology for bailing on him again, maybe—but he cut her off by nuzzling into her neck. 

“My sister is quite loud.” 

“Mm hmm.” Emma moaned softly when his lips found that spot she loved, and she could feel stirrings of arousal beginning. She had to get out of there. Not that she wanted to. 

“Regina will kill me if I'm not in soon.” 

“Then I shall have to work fast,” he breathed into her neck. His hand found the hem of the t-shirt he'd given her to wear, his palm smoothing up her belly until it found her breast. He ran his fingers over her nipple and bit at her earlobe, his breathing heavy in her ear. 

“Turn on your side,” he whispered, and it was all she could do to nod weakly. She did as requested, and true to his word, he worked fast. He lifted her leg over his, his hand returning to hook her underwear to the side. “Tsk. Wet already, Swan?” 

“Get to work, Jones. So I can get to work.” 

“Aye, aye.” 

Emma crept out of his house, wincing at the brisk cold ( _so_ much worse this close to the ocean, gees) as she got into her car. Jones had hopped up out of bed as she flailed around for her clothes, and it hadn't even registered to her at the time, so rushed was she to get back to her place so she could shower. As she entered the living room, looking for her jacket and keys, there he was, dangling her simple keychain between thumb and forefinger. 

“I, uh. Started warming up your ridiculous little car for you.” He seemed flushed as she stood there, gaping at him. David did that for her all the time—both warmed up her engine and mocked her favorite thing on the planet. “You seemed pressed for time, and--” 

“That's... yeah. Thank you.” Emma just didn't know what to say. She had people who looked after her, had had those people for years now. But never a guy. Well, not a guy who made her come four times in the space of twelve hours, anyway. 

“My pleasure.” They stood there awkwardly, and Emma wasn't really sure why it was so awkward. So she did the only thing she knew to do in that kind of situation. She smiled at him and plucked her keys from his fingers, saying a soft “good-bye” before leaving. 

It wasn't until much later that she realized she never told him that she'd call him later, or that she'd see him later, or that they could maybe marathon some Discovery Channel later. She hadn't said anything, and it made her feel like a giant asshole. 

She'd have to make it up to him. 

Xxxxx 

Sometimes, the bail bondsperson business was so busy that Emma forgot to eat, and it looked like the first few weeks of December were going to be one of those times. Mer started responding to Emma's infrequent texts with, _who the hell are ye and how'd u get this number?_ Emma would come home to wrapped plates in her fridge and notes with heating instructions written in Mary Margaret's neat hand magneted to the fridge door. They'd all been through this before, many times—Emma disappearing for weeks at a time, either on stakeouts for untold hours of boredom or having to jet to other states to get her man. 

The only difference was that this time, she added a new person to her text communications. She sent Jones a text later that day, making sure that he knew she wasn't ignoring him, that she was just busy. His response seemed positive and sympathetic, and she was so stupidly amazed at how understanding he was that she just kept on texting him. Sometimes she'd be sitting in her Bug, doing the crossword, and she'd send him the clue she was stuck on because she just _knew_ he'd know the answer, and of course he always did. He started sending her texts of whatever he was doing at that moment—it started when one night she was working and bored and annoyed, so she'd demanded to know what he was doing. So he sent a dick pic and she'd gasped because she just really wanted to go over to his place, a sudden need to see him overtaking her completely. Then she'd chuckled, her own laughter loud and sounding seductive to her own ears, and she'd responded with _seriously?_

**You asked, and I figured showing was so much better than telling**

_true but I can't do anything about it because i'm sitting in my car and you know it_

**Not my fault, love. You asked, I obliged. I would never lie to you. I suppose I could have sent a traditional selfie, but I fear my o-face is rather ridiculous**

_and how would you know, i don't remember there being mirrors on your ceiling_

**Perhaps I videotape myself**

Emma's mind went about eight shades of filthy at the thought. She cursed out loud, hating that she was working at the moment. 

_Pls tell me there isn't a video of us on your phone somewhere_

**I'd never do that without asking first**

_good to know_

**come over after the stakeout's done?**

_Idk when that will be, honestly_

**all right.**

It went like this for a while. When Emma finally had a slow-down in her routine, grinning as Regina told her to not only get the hell out of there early but to take Friday off, too, she almost jumped up and down in relief. Two straight weeks of working so much she could do nothing more than pass out in bed at the weirdest hours, and she was finally going to get a break. A week before Christmas. 

“Go. Get some rest. Come back fresh in two days.” 

“Uhh, that would be Saturday.” 

“Yes, Saturday the eighteenth. We have an obligation to show up to the charity drive, or did you forget?” 

Emma groaned. She _had_ forgotten. Regina had mentioned something about it before Thanksgiving—some giving back to the community thing that she thought would make her look good to the local business people who were wary of the scary women who chased criminals for a living. Emma nodded, affirming that she'd be there bright and early on Saturday. Who cared, when she was unexpectedly getting a Friday off? 

As she drove home, her mind whirled with the possibilities. She could actually sleep in. She could go out to eat. She could go to a bar. She could talk to her friends. 

She could go see Killian Jones. 

She didn't know what she wanted more. Well, that was a lie. She really wanted to see him, and to feel him on top of her or beneath her or hopefully both. To maybe do the crossword with him in person. 

Unfortunately, her friends had other plans for her. Ruby texted that she saw her Bug driving toward home, and was she finally available for a drink? Emma had responded that she got out of jail early and had the next day off just before she got into her car, so she didn't see Ruby's response until she got home. 

**Good!!!!! Me and Mer will pick you up in an hour.**

Emma sighed, wondering if it would be too much a return to her asshole ways if she ended up texting Jones all drunk later that night, but she knew that her friends missed her, and she missed them. So she gave in, showering and throwing on cute underwear (just in case). She could text Jones later, see if he was doing anything tomorrow. 

That would be a first. Hanging out with him in the light of day. 

“So, Miss Swan,” Mer said as they waited for their first round of drinks. “How are things. How is the bounty hunting business. How's your vagina, has it met anyone new lately?” 

“You are hilarious.” 

“I know it.” Mer agreed solemnly while Ruby grinned, and Emma couldn't help her happy smile. She'd missed Ruby and Mer. And Mary Margaret, who had some big thing planned for the kids on their final day before Holiday Break and was staying home with David, who Emma missed just as much as her girls. But Christmas was a week away, and the way they all rolled, she'd be fed up with how they all barged into her house and dragged her to all kinds of Christmassy functions by the time New Year's rolled around. She was looking forward to it. 

“Have you heard from--” But Mer stopped herself when Ruby put a hand on her arm; it was about the only time in her life Emma had ever seen the redhead curtail her own mouth. She grinned and lifted her glass to her lips, gulping down the tequila she'd ordered with a swift flick of her wrist. 

It wasn't like Emma didn't know what she'd been about to say, but somehow, she didn't really want to bring it up. Like talking about how she had slept with him again—a few times, now, actually—would jinx it, how smoothly it was going (wasn't it?). So, she feigned ignorance. 

“From?” She sipped at her drink casually, not wanting to get completely trashed, just in case Jones was up for her dropping by. Just thinking about him made her grin, and she almost pulled her phone out to text him, but she figured that would look suspect. 

“No one,” Ruby and Mer said at the same time. Even if she didn't know them as well as she did she would have been suspicious, but she decided not to pursue their odd behavior. That would give them too much power. 

Instead, they talked about the upcoming holiday shuffle—Christmas Eve with family (she and David had been doing hot chocolate and stockings since they were kids, and Mary Margaret got added to the mix a few years back, once it was clear that things were serious); Christmas dinner with the whole group at David and Mary Margaret's; Victor's annual Dress to Kill Christmas party (“ugly sweaters are cliched and stupid,” read the e-vite, “and will be doused with egg nog before being tossed onto the Yule log”) on Saturday; burying Rob's front door any time it snowed (which took on new and interesting intrigue now that Emma knew her boss would probably be inside, too). 

“Ugh, we're going to be so exhausted before the party on Saturday,” Ruby said, sucking on a cherry before twisting off the stem and handing it over to Mer, who promptly put it into her mouth and produced a double knot in less than sixty seconds. There were some guys at the bar who kept trying to make eyes at them, so naturally, Mer and Ruby were hamming it up. “This charity thing Rob's been bugging us about sounds kind of great.” At this, Ruby looked over at Mer significantly before they both turned to Emma, and that's when she started to wonder what the hell this charity drive was about, if everyone was talking about it. 

“Okay, that's the second reference to charity today. Is this the same thing? What is it? Is everyone going to be there?” 

“Emma,” Ruby laughed. “Yes? There are flyers all over town? Regina asked both MM and Rob for support, but he's the one who dragged all of our asses into it. That woman has him completely wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger, it's _amazing_. He's so happy and dopey and bashful and probably Doc, too. She's good for him.” 

“We already know you'll be there,” Mer said, and there was an odd note in her voice—like she was cautioning Emma against something, but Emma didn't know what. “Shall we pick you up, then? Or will you be getting a ride from, uh,” and here Ruby must have stomped on her toe because she startled and knocked her knee against the underside of the table. “Fucking Christ on a—Regina, I was going to say Regina!” Emma looked at the two of them, wondering what the hell was going on and wondering just how drunk they were. She, herself, wasn't drunk in the slightest, staying mostly sober so that if (when) she texted Jones, she'd be nice and clear-headed. 

“Yeah, Regina asked me to go? I don't know, I'm supposed to be at the office at eight sharp on Saturday, so if we're all going, I guess I'll see you guys there.” 

Ruby and Mer still had work the following day, so Emma dropped them both off at a reasonable hour. She texted Jones, but he didn't answer right away, so with a heavy sigh, she went back to her place. 

He finally got back to her just as she was crawling into bed. 

**Sorry I missed you, love. Taking care of work things.**

_At eleven at night?_

**Piracy is a 24hr business, Swan.**

She smiled and bit her lip, her thumbs hovering over the keypad on her phone. 

_I was kind of hoping you'd like company. But it's too late now._

**Late? It's early. You can come over and let yourself in.**

_already in bed_

Her phone rang half a second later. 

“In bed already, hmm? Me as well. I didn't know if...” 

“What,” she said, totally unable to keep the grin off her face. “You weren't expecting me to just show up at your place again?” 

“A man hopes, Swan,” he said, and she swore she could hear a grin in his voice, too. “But he daren't presume.” 

“Good thing, buddy,” she said, rolling up into a ball on her side. Damn, did she wish he was there with her. She closed her eyes and listened to him breathing. It was soothing. “Long week. The girls dragged me out.” 

“Poor darling, having people who care about you.” 

“Shh,” she laughed. “I know I'm lucky. But they exhaust me. Besides,” she continued, taking a huge breath and feeling a surge of bravery as she plunged ahead. “I would have preferred to see you, maybe take you out for dinner.” She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes, wondering if she'd just ruined a good thing. Especially when he didn't respond right away. 

“That would have been lovely.” 

“Do you--” Emma had to stop to take a breath. “Regina gave me tomorrow off.” 

“Rather generous of her. But then she did always love the holidays.” 

“Does she?” The thought amused her. 

“I think she longs for a big family gathering. The kind neither of us had growing up.” 

“Well, if she keeps seeing Rob, she'll have more family than she wants. I can see it now: Ruby bugging her to find out where she gets her nails done, David wanting to exchange recipes.” 

“Hmm.” She could hear him shuffling and tried to picture it. Was he all bundled up like she was? Was he wearing those fleecey pajama bottoms that sat a little too low on his hips? The low murmur of his voice interrupted her daydreaming. “So, how are you planning on spending your day off? Sleeping? _Pit Bulls and Parolees_ marathon?” 

“Actually, I was...kind of wondering if you'd like to go out with me.” She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, wanting to take it back but wanting him to say “yes” even more. 

He didn't answer right away, and just when she was about to take it back before throwing her phone into the next century and hiding, he finally spoke. 

“With regret, I must say no, much as I'd love to. I have a rather busy day ahead of me, and--” 

“No, no. It's okay, it was probably a dumb idea anyway.” She was going to sink to the bottom of the floor. Emma hadn't realized until he turned her down how much she liked the idea of like, a date with Killian Jones. 

“Not at all, Swan,” he said. She could definitely hear a smile in his voice, despite the conciliatory tone in his voice. “Perhaps Saturday evening?” 

“Oh,” she breathed out. “Actually, there's this party Victor is throwing.” 

“The doctor?” 

“Yeah. He's not really as douchey as he seems, probably. Surgeons have big heads, and--” 

“Aye, he seems...” 

“Yeah. But he always throws a good party. Oh, you'd have to dress to kill, that's what the invite says, anyway. Women in heels, men in ties. Or wrapped in plastic, if you want to take it literally. Mer did last year, it was hilarious.” 

“So you're asking me to be your plus one, I take it? To this party with your friends?” 

“I...guess I am,” she said softly, waiting to feel panic at the thought of arriving at Victor's loft with the treasure hunter guy from Thanksgiving on her arm. Only it didn't happen. In fact, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

“Then I happily accept. I must warn you, I'll be rather tired because on Saturday--” 

_Beep_ . 

“Oh, hell. Regina calling. Probably to remind me about this charity thing on Saturday. I gotta go.” 

“About that--” 

_Beep_ . Somehow, the beep sounded as impatient as her boss. 

“I'll talk to you later?” 

“I was rather hoping for phone sex, but--” 

_Beep!_

“Okay, okay. Later.” 

She switched calls, grinning the entire time that Regina did, indeed, call to remind her to be there at eight sharp, and to wear something “festive and understated.” Emma hung up, sighing as she stared at her outgoing call list. BDJ. With a smile, she edited the contact info to say “Killian Jones” instead, and BDKJ under the company name. 

Xxxxx 

Emma decided to spend Friday buying gifts. There was a steady stream of texting and phone calls from everyone, considering word that she had the day off had made the rounds. Mary Margaret called, insisting Emma come to the staff lunch at the school, so she greeted her friend with a big hug, letting her warmth and enthusiasm for the holidays envelop her. Ruby was sending pictures of all the possible things she'd like for Christmas, which were all borderline-inappropriate and would arrive from Amazon in “discreet packages.” Mer wanted passes to the archery range, so Emma got those for both her and Rob, the two of them having been in the middle of an ongoing and not-so-friendly competition for the last eight years. David, she didn't bother asking; they always got each other the same thing, year after year: Harry Potter merch. This year, she had gotten him tickets to the Wizard World opening up in California in the spring. She knew he'd die, and she also knew she'd won the one-upmanship that existed between siblings when it came to who bought the better gift. 

She also bought something for Jones. Just a ship in a bottle that she saw sitting in the window of a pawn shop, nothing big. It was only twenty bucks, too, but she knew as she was walking by that he'd love it. The shop owner told her all about it, that it came from a woman who had made them for therapeutic reasons, and she was quite a craftswoman. He pointed out all the details, and Emma paid attention so that she could tell Jones later: the tiny cannons that even had tiny little cannonballs stacked next to them on the deck; the gull sitting on the crow's nest; the redheaded mermaid swimming alongside and under the water. Emma was enchanted by the thing, and she hoped he would be, too. 

Eight was early for a Saturday, so Emma decided to go to bed around ten, not before texting Jones and asking about his day. He'd said he'd be busy, so she wasn't expecting the prompt response. 

**Exhausting. I could use a bottle of rum and a buxom wench to ease me suffering.**

_was that you asking me to come over_

**No, love. Unless you wanted to.**

_i have to get up early tomorrow_

**As do I. In about seven hours. Emma eyed the clock. Just after ten.**

_wtf why are you getting up at five on a saturday, that's unnatural_

**Work, Swan. I promise, I'll be refreshed when you pick me up for our date.**

_Our date_ , she thought with glee. 

_dressed to kill, right_

**You shall experience the little death ere long, Emma.**

It was such a little thing, but Emma felt all swoony inside at that. It was the first time he'd ever called her by her first name. She'd always been Swan to him, but that was just fine by her. She couldn't wait to hear it out loud. Then she narrowed her eyes. 

_you seem pretty confident about that_

**Have I failed thus far, Swan?**

She sighed happily. No. He hadn't. 

**Because if something in my technique is lacking, do allow me to make up for it. Repeatedly.**

_now?_

**If only I could.**

_next best thing?_

He responded with a winky face. 

_let's have it, jones._

This time he sent more in the picture than just a dick selfie; his legs were sprawled out and bent slightly at the knees, his pants shoved down mid-thigh. His cock was jutting out proudly—his left hand wrapped around the base of it, loose and lifting it up slightly with his thumb. Emma sighed and bit her lip, leaning back and shoving her hand down her underwear. She suddenly found that she couldn't wait to see him the following day. 

Xxxx 

Saturday dawned bright and fucking early. Seven was _way_ too early to be awake. She decided to stop and get a giant coffee, almost not getting one for the boss who made her get up on a Saturday, but she didn't want to start off the day wrong, so she made it two Ventis and threw in a couple of blueberry muffins for good measure. 

“Venti Americano, steaming hot and bite me,” Emma said, handing Regina a bright red Starbucks cup and sipping at her own quad cinnamon dolce latte with extra whipped cream. She definitely needed the caffeine to make it through...whatever they were doing at hella early a.m. 

Emma didn't put up a fight when Regina offered to drive, simply climbing into the luxe leather of her Mercedes and moaning appreciatively when it turned out one of the amenities of expensive cars made in this millennium was seat warmers. 

She didn't really pay attention to wherever it was they were going, nor did she ask questions, which maybe she should have when she noticed where they were as the car pulled to a smooth stop. 

“The harbor? What the hell kind of charity drive is done at the harbor? We're not giving our services for Fleet Week, are we?” 

Regina turned and gave her an incredulous look, eying Emma's very grumpy form up and down before unbuckling herself. Emma was pretty sure one of Regina's signature clipped and “duh” explanations was coming and she braced for it, but instead, her boss surprised her by chuckling. She climbed out of her car with that annoying, assured grace of hers, and Emma followed suit, albeit with far less grace and far more stumbling. She thought she heard Regina mutter something about “didn't tell her,” but she couldn't be sure with her beanie pulled tight over her head. 

As Emma plodded along behind her boss, the noise of bustle and activity finally pulled her slightly more awake. She could feel the caffeine working its magic and she wondered if there was coffee at whatever shindig this was. She looked up, and that's when her jaw dropped. 

Not Fleet Week. More like Disneyland does Christmas. They do that at Disneyland, right? Emma found herself wondering whether the Pirates of the Caribbean ride got decked out like this, because it looked like Santas's elves threw up all over Johnny Depp's filthy (appealing) pirate attire. 

The entire harbor—like, every single boat—was decked out in tinsel garland and holly and twinkle lights and all kinds of other trimmings. There was powdery snow everywhere, and Emma figured they had hired snow blowers for that. Fake trees dotted the entire area, decorated with large, gaudy ornaments and lights. A Christmas fair? In Storybrooke? Then she noticed a large banner slung between two boats: _The Third Annual Storybrooke Holiday Pirate Treasure Hunt and Charity Drive_ and in smaller print below the date, along with _Find yourself some Christmas Booty, mateys!_

Despite the cheesy pun, Emma grinned. How the hell had she managed to live in Storybrooke and never hear about this? How had it escaped Ruby's or David's notice? They would love this shit, and they would definitely have dragged everyone to it. Then she remembered that they'd be there, too, and the whole day took on new anticipation. This would be great. 

“So, you'll be manning the rum shooters booth,” Regina said, and Emma realized she hadn't been listening. “One shot for eight bucks. Candy cane-striped wristbands are over 21; don't sell to anyone without a wristband, because I don't want to have to front you the bail money. Go find Leroy, Mary Margaret says you know him--” 

“You got Mary Margaret involved?” 

“She's the one who suggested the kissing booth. She also suggested we put you there, but I told her I didn't want to be attending either of our funerals this year.” 

“I appreciate that.” 

“You're welcome.” 

“And just where will you be?” 

“Why, running the show, of course,” Regina said with that smile that some called predatory but Emma knew just meant she was awfully pleased with herself. “That brother of mine claims he can manage just fine without me, but I know him better. He gets too anxious, wants everything perfect, whereas I am willing to accept a certain degree of--” 

“Killian's here?” 

“This is his thing. Did you not know?” Regina seemed a little too innocent and bland in her inquiry, and Emma's eyes narrowed. Regina smiled tightly before swishing away, and Emma suddenly realized that this whole charity thing might be another damned set-up. 

Too bad for Regina Mills, successful business owner and busybody: Emma Swan could set herself up just fine, thank you very much. 

“Emma, you came!” 

Mary Margaret lurched into Emma's back and wrapped her short little arms around Emma's waist in a fierce hug, and Emma laughed as they almost toppled over. 

“Of course. It's charity,” she shrugged, grinning when Mary Margaret spun her around. 

“You don't look festive.” 

“I am wearing pants. That's about as festive as I get.” 

“Thank Santa for small favors,” came David's voice from behind her. “Glad to see you, sis.” 

“Likewise, bro.” 

“We're doing the goldfish ping pong ball thingie, Ruby is naturally at the kissing booth. What'd you get?” 

“Rum shooters booth.” 

“Nice!” David exclaimed, while Mary Margaret pouted, “We wanted that one!” 

“Yeah, Regina said that was the first booth to go,” David continued, looking to Emma. “What, did you promise to work on Christmas Day or something? Apparently, that's the booth to get.” 

“How do you even know these things?” Emma said, linking arms with her two favorite people in the world as they made their way down the thoroughfare. 

“I am people who know people,” Mary Margaret said flippantly, shrugging when David and Emma laughed in unison. Emma looked around, noticing the way things seemed to be well under control. She was actually kind of impressed, considering how small a town Storybrooke was. There was an annual Fourth of July Fair every year followed by fireworks in the harbor, but she'd never gone to that, either. They usually kept to their small group, not really participating in the goings-on of the town. Well, Mary Margaret and David did, but they were never very successful at getting her to volunteer her time. But as she looked around at the sweetly decorated booths (Christmas and Pirates seemed such an odd combination, but it definitely worked, and she wondered if Santa was going to have a peg leg and a parrot with a little beard and hat on its head, too), Emma had a bout of regretful nostalgia that she hadn't done this before. She did seem to recall a Christmas fair, now that she thought about it, but she always thought it was for kids. 

But when people started pouring in an hour or so later, Emma realized it wasn't just small people running around (Leroy, the Principal at Mary Margaret's school, was dressed as an elf, and Emma made a mental note to ask her friend exactly how she'd gotten the grumpiest asshole on the planet to put on pointy shoes and a hat with a pompom on it, although Mary Margaret did have a talent for getting people to do what she wanted without ever seeming to have asked in the first place). The adults seemed as delighted as the kids, eager to buy tickets to do dumb shit like toss a baseball painted like a peppermint candy at a stack of empty rum bottles or get red and green skulls and crossbones painted on their faces. 

Emma was busy for two hours straight, taking people's money and serving them shots of rum. She hadn't thought it would be a popular thing, especially considering the fact that it was ten in the morning, but surprise, surprise; people could be drunken louts at any time of day. The line was long, the rum was strong, and some people came back more than twice. Her booth partner was a nice, shorter man who told her to call him “Smee,” and he had whispered with rum-soaked breath that this was the biggest moneymaker in the entire fair. 

“The Captain only entrusts certain people with running this booth, you know,” he whispered (or thought he whispered) in Emma's ear. “Her Highness, his sister gives him a list of names, but he has to approve them.” Smee then stood back and eyed Emma up and down critically before saying, “I suppose you'll do.” 

“Thanks,” Emma said wryly before giving a literal thumbs-down to a kid who had colored in a wristband with what looked like Wite-Out stripes. “Come back in four years with some whiskers on your chin, kid,” she said. 

“I've got whiskers on me chin, lass,” came a richly accented, rum-raspy voice, and Emma turned to shoot down what had to be the tenth time she'd been hit on since starting, when she came up short. 

Big Dick Jones, in the flesh. Wearing a red velvet frock coat trimmed with gold frogging and white fur at the cuffs and hem. And matching red velvet breeches. And boots. And an ostentatious red velvet hat with a giant feather and white fur trim. And a hook for a hand. 

“Santa Hook?” she said wryly, her lips curling into a huge smile. She'd been waiting for him to come around, and she should've figured he'd be dressed to match the theme. 

“That's Captain Santa Hook to you, lassie,” he said, his gloved hand twirling the fake mustache curling on either side of his nose. He waved his fake hook around, grinning at her like she was the best thing he'd ever seen. She felt the exact same way. 

“Shouldn't your beard be white, Captain Santa?” 

“You dare sass your Captain, Lieutenant Swan?” 

“Oh, I'm your lieutenant?” 

“I'd hardly trust my most prized possession to anyone less, lass,” he said, his voice melting every organ in her body. God, she was giddy. She was glad to see him, and she would never say it in a billion years, but the pirate get-up worked for her. His pants were even tighter than usual, and she idly wondered if he had any other pirate gear stashed away somewhere for later use. 

“I'll take two, Lieutenant,” he said softly, sliding a twenty across the table. Emma reached for the money, biting her lip when his finger reached out to brush across her knuckles. “You have a break in five minutes, aye?” 

“Yeah,” she breathed, looking up into his gaze. His eyes were sparkling and his smile was cocky, and hell. She wanted to jump over the table and grab him by his stupid pirate Santa costume and kiss the stupid mustache off his face. 

“Mister Smee!” he barked, nearly making her jump. He didn't take his eyes off of her as he said in that same commanding (and hot) voice, “Take over for the Lieutenant.” 

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Smee said, saluting smartly, and Emma wondered if the two fo them were always like that, or whether it was all a part of the pirate act. Whatever it was, she decided she wanted him to bark at her like that later on. 

Suddenly giddy, Emma jumped up out of her chair and went to the back of the booth, reaching for her coat and shrugging into it. Jones appeared at the back where they stored the booze, reaching over to move the red canopy that enclosed the entire thing and whisking her away from the buzz of the fair. 

Before she could so much as say, “Why the hell didn't you tell me about this,” she was in his arms and laughing into his kiss. 

“That mustache tickles,” she breathed when she pulled away. 

“The real mustache will tickle your thighs later,” he said, his voice low and full of promise. 

“Oh,” was all she had to say, standing up on her toes to kiss him again. 

He tasted like coffee and peppermint, and she sighed happily, her jaw dropping as he swept his tongue across hers slowly, lazily, like they had all the time in the world. 

“I'm supposed to be eating or something,” she whispered when he pulled away. 

“Well, I'm in charge of this thing, and I say you're supposed to be doing exactly what you're doing,” he said, laughing at the look that must have been on her face. 

“I thought Regina was in charge. This is all you?” 

“Aye. She likes to think she's in charge and it's easier to let her keep thinking so.” 

“Why didn't you say anything?” 

“I--” He looked sheepish, relaxing his hold on her waist but not letting go completely. “I knew that Regina had already roped you into volunteering, and... I'm not sure, exactly.” He stepped away then, his hand coming up to rest on his neck before sweeping the ridiculous hat off his head. “I suppose I didn't want to risk the chance that you wouldn't show if I told you that I do this every year.” 

“You--” Emma felt indignant that he thought she'd bolt on charity, but she stopped herself. He looked so unsure of himself then, and it was weird to see on the usually cocky and smirky face of Killian Jones, but there you had it. Emma did that to him. She made him unsure of himself. She hated that. So instead, she reached up to place a soft kiss on his scruffy cheek. “That's fair,” she said softly. “But I'd never turn my back on—what are we raising money for, anyway?” 

“The Children's Home,” he said simply, and Emma's grinch heart swelled about three sizes. 

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously. I've always donated, but a few years ago, my sister convinced me that the tax benefits to my business would be a smart idea, and say what you will about Regina, but the woman knows her business. But I didn't wish to simply do a toy drive, and here we are. Pirate Christmas Fair.” 

“I...love it.” 

“Really?” he said, his face lighting up like one of the decorated trees dotting the harbor. Emma had an inkling of what he'd look like when he opened her gift, and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to watch him do it. See whether he was the type to rip into a gift like an impatient child or whether he did it with care, like when he was undressing her late at night. 

She wanted all of that. 

And she wasn't scared of it. 

Huh. 

“You need to be getting back, but I feel I must warn you--” 

Jones was interrupted by some shouting coming from the other side of the tents, and he muttered a curse under his breath. 

“Duty calls, Lieutenant. Some of the lads must be getting into the rum. Back to your post with you, then.” He even swatted her on the ass, and laughing, she made her way back to her booth, sneaking in around the canopy the same way he'd sneaked her out. 

Several hours later and the fair was finally dying down. Emma couldn't believe how much money they'd raked in at the rum booth alone. They had started the morning with fifteen cases of Captain Morgan, and they were down to five bottles. Regina had come around three times to collect the cash they'd gotten, smiling every time and saying things like, “This is the best haul yet,” which sounded awfully piratey of the boss who usually sounded more like royalty than a gleeful marauder. 

Ruby and Mer had ended up spending the last hour at Emma's booth, chatting at her about their plans for later that evening and assessing every single person who came up for rum shots. 

“She's going to pass out after her second. I should help her home,” Mer said of a particularly pretty blonde. 

“Unfortunate beard, but the jeans hug his ass well,” Ruby declared of a man they'd all agreed was a DILF. 

“Just no,” they all said when Leroy staggered away double-fisted, mini red solo cups clutched in each of his hands. 

And while they passed judgment on the drinkers, the girls also passed judgment on Emma's love life. 

“So we saw Big Dick Jones make his hot-ass pirate Santa way over here earlier,” Ruby commented casually. “Did you fuck him behind the tent?” 

“What? No!” Emma exclaimed. Not that she hadn't thought about it. 

“Did you break his heart, then?” 

“No.” 

“You should invite him to the party tonight.” 

“Ruby--” 

“You should fuck him at the party tonight.” 

“Mer--” 

“Emma. What's the hold-up?” 

“Oh my God, you guys. That'll be twenty-four,” she said, turning to the latest drinker, who she swore ran the diner down the street from the office. She watched with amusement as the older lady downed her three shots in succession, smacked her lips, nodded twice, then walked away without a stagger in her stride. 

“No hold-up. Just...let me do my thing, okay?” Inside, Emma was grinning. She knew it now. Jones had tried to warn her earlier, but she always could smell these things coming a mile off. 

Everyone was trying to get her to date Killian Jones. 

_Too late, everyone_ , she thought in her mind. 

She kind of looked forward to shocking them all, actually. Emma Swan, dating a boy who wasn't a douche. Emma Swan, dating, period. 

Dating a man who organized charity for orphans at Christmastime, for Pete's sake. 

He was kind of a catch. 

It annoyed her that it took her this long to see it with such stunning clarity. 

And now that she knew, she wanted to find him and make out with him and make him come home with her and never leave. 

But when he showed up at the end of the fair, back in his regular clothes (and no mustache), Emma felt herself panicking on the inside. Knowing she was into him and admitting it to herself was one thing; saying it to him? God. 

“Only two bottles left? I'm impressed, Swan. Last year we had three cases left, and I had myself a party every night for a month. Must be your considerable assets,” he said warmly, eying her up and down. Smee chuckled next to her, and Jones looked over like he'd forgotten the man was there. 

“Mr. Smee, will you--” 

“Already on it, Captain. Commencing clean-up now,” the man replied smartly. Emma grinned at that. 

“Everyone's gone, Smee. You don't have to call him 'Captain' anymore.” 

“But he is my captain.” Smee looked confused for a second, looking to Jones for approval or explanation. “We've been sailing together for years. I figured you knew that. You two seem to know each other so well.” 

“Oh,” Emma said, feeling very dumb. She should have put two and two together, but she had assumed Smee had been roped into doing this just like she had. 

“Captain Jones here is the best sailor I've ever worked with,” Smee continued, like Emma wasn't questioning herself for not knowing everything about Killian Jones. “He's a good boss, never too demanding. Treats us all well, really knows his stuff on the water. You should take her sailing some time, Captain. Show your lady the coast as the sun rises--” 

“That'll be enough, Smee,” Jones interrupted, his cheeks flushing bright red. Emma came around the table to join him, waving at Smee before poking Jones in the ribs. 

“Your lady?” 

“He, ah. I may have spoken of you before.” 

“Your lady?” 

“His words, not mine, I swear,” Jones said quickly, putting his hands up in surrender. “I would never--” 

“It's cool,” she said, leaning over to kiss him but pausing to make sure he heard her words. “I don't mind.” She leaned over to finish her kiss, but then she heard a whoop from around a corner and pulled away. She'd recognize Mary Margaret's enthusiasm anywhere. 

“There you are! Both of you! How was it?” Emma hadn't seen either her or David the entire time, so she figured the goldfish must have kept them busy. “Listen, Killian. There's a party tonight at Victor's. You remember him? The arrogant one from Thanksgiving? He's a good guy, mostly. Anyway, he's having this shindig tonight and you have to dress up, but we'd love it if you made an appearance.” Mary Margaret's eyebrow arched at Emma, as if daring her to protest, then she went back to looking at Jones. “I know it's last minute, but I'd love to see you and maybe get to know you a little better. Your sister talks so much about you, and I'd--” 

“You don't have to convince me further, love. I'm in. What time?” Emma was amused. Mary Margaret looked like a cat with a bowl of cream as she rattled off the details, her frequent glances at Emma almost making Emma want to roll her eyes. Mary Margaret practically shoved him away before linking elbows with Emma, and Emma had to roll her neck around to follow him with her eyes as he left. Before they turned a corner, he gave her a look that was full of promise and “later,” and she felt a thrill go through her. 

Xxxx 

She got ready for the party with care, something she hadn't done in an awfully long time. Shower, shave everywhere. Makeup applied and re-applied when she fucked up her liquid liner. Two coats of mascara, lips blood red. She decided to go festive with a killer off-the-shoulder red dress she'd stolen from Ruby ages ago, which would do double duty by making Jones wide-eyed and irking her friend endlessly. She waited impatiently for Mer to pick her up, ready half an hour before they had to be there. The only communication with Jones was a quick text from him— **hope you're ready for that little death we discussed earlier—** and she'd responded with the same winky face he'd given her before. She had been thrown off slightly at the name—Killian Jones instead of BDJ—and it made her smile. 

The party was in full swing by the time they'd gotten there, Mer insisting that “to arrive on time is not very punk rock, Em. We shall make a grand entrance, then” her accent exaggerating the “r”s. Emma immediately started looking for Jones, but it seemed he was even later than she was. She pouted briefly before putting on a bright smile, determined to ride out what she now realized was a set-up of epic proportions. 

“Ohh, you look great,” Mary Margaret said enthusiastically, showing up with a glass of egg nog that Emma refused outright. 

“You've seen me in this dress at least a dozen times,” Emma laughed, opting for the innocuous sparkling cider Victor had for “lame-os and designated drivers.” Emma had decided before arriving that she wouldn't be drinking, not tonight. 

She wanted to have a clear mind when she seduced Killian Jones at the end of the night. 

“Yeah, but something is...different,” Mary Margaret said, stepping back to regard Emma from head to toe. “You're glowing.” 

“Am not,” Emma scoffed, sipping at her cider and shooting her eyes to the door when it opened to reveal two doctors dressed in tuxes, one of them a woman. 

“I figured you'd be cranky after working for charity all day.” 

“What can I say? I'm full of fucking charity.” 

“Right,” Mary Margaret laughed. She still looked suspicious, and Emma figured she needed to change her game face if she was looking so obvious. She passed by one of Victor's many mirrors (the man was so into himself, gees), and she wondered what it was that Mary Margaret saw. She didn't look any different. But she felt different, and that was probably what her friend noticed. Maybe her eyes were brighter, she decided, or maybe it was that her brow was clear and unfurrowed. 

“Altogether gorgeous,” sighed _his_ voice from behind her, and just before she turned around, she noticed her own eyes light up with recognition and possibly happiness. 

That's what it was her friend saw, she realized. 

“Jones,” she said, schooling her features as she turned to face him. 

She had to bite her tongue. He looked good. Dark blue suit, tailored to perfection. Bright blue button-up, red and navy-striped tie. His hair was still a study in dishevelment, which she now knew he did on purpose, because his real bedhead was a disaster (or maybe it was just that she had a habit of grabbing onto it when in the throes). 

“You look--” 

“I know,” she grinned. 

“Killian, you're here!” Mary Margaret trilled, rushing over to give him a warm hug. She stepped back with her hands still on his arms and whistled like a cartoon wolf. “Damn, do you clean up good.” 

“Well,” Emma corrected. “You're a teacher, act like it.” 

“He's so dashing that it knocked the grammar out of my head,” her friend said primly, and both Jones and Emma laughed at that. Then Mary Margaret linked elbows with him, exactly like she'd done with Emma earlier and like she did with everyone she loved, and Emma wondered just when it was that the mother of their family had decided he was one of them. 

The party was excruciating. Emma didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing that she had already decided about Killian Jones, but she also wanted to touch him, every inch of him. She wanted to fuck up his careful hairstyle. She wanted to bite his chin and yank that tie off his neck. She wanted-- 

“You look like you're about to sink a bite into a piece of particularly delicious cake, babe,” Ruby said, sidling over with Mer on one arm and Victor on another. 

“You should've fucked him behind the tent,” Mer sighed, knocking back another drink. 

“Who?” Victor demanded, his eyes glassy and glued to Ruby's chest. 

“Never mind,” Ruby and Mer said in unison. 

“Is it time for 'Never Have I Ever' yet?” Victor slurred, and Emma groaned. 

“That's it. I'm outta here.” 

“What? No, it's early!” the girls protested, but Emma had just about had it. She felt a buzz on her thigh and reached under her dress, her fingers unclipping the holster she had on a garter belt and pulling out her phone. 

**I will be outside in ten minutes**

She had to bite her cheek to keep from grinning. Say what you will about Killian Jones, but the man sure did know how to read her mind. 

“I'm tired, guys. Victor, you outdid yourself,” she said, stepping forward to put a bright red lipstick kiss on his cheek. 

She made the rounds, finding David and Mary Margaret, making sure at least one of them was sober enough to drive home. She saw Regina and almost turned right back around, not wanting to watch as her boss and old friend rounded second base on Victor Whale's couch. 

Her friends seen to, Emma found her coat and shrugged into it as she walked, slowly picking her away around drunken doctors and other people she sort-of knew as she made her way outside. Once there, she sighed in relief, the cold, dim quiet of Storybrooke at night wonderful to her ears. 

“Shall we?” came Killian's voice behind her, and she nodded happily without turning to look at him. If she looked at him, she'd jump him, and that had to wait. It was too damned cold to do any kind of jumping this late at night. 

Like the other times, he silently opened his passenger door for her, closing it gently when she slid her legs over the cold seat. He jogged around to let himself in, settling down and reaching into the back before producing a blanket. 

“For your luscious legs, love. Warm them up for me, hmm?” 

Emma only nodded in response. She could feel anticipation bubbling around inside her, and she suddenly hoped he'd risk a speeding ticket to get them there faster. 

“Your place or mine?” he asked, and when she said “mine” without stopping to think about it, she knew she was doing the right thing. 

He made it there in record time; Emma practically dove out of the car in her haste to get inside, out of the cold, and out of her dress. She figured he was feeling the same way because she'd barely gotten the door open when he was pressed up against her, walking her into the house with his knees pushing against the backs of her thighs. She almost forgot to lock the door, she was so eager to touch and be touched. 

“I've been wanting to rip that dress off of you all night, which would certainly ruin the three inches of fabric that make it up,” he whispered into her neck. Emma moaned loudly, the kind of moan that would normally be embarrassing if she weren't already so keyed up. 

She turned around to face him, wrapping her arms around his neck and stopping to look into his eyes. She had left a lamp on, so she could see how focused and clear and blue they were, looking back into hers, dark and full of desire. And something else. There was something else there, and she wanted to know what it was. 

Later. 

“Hey,” she whispered, leaning up to brush her lips against his. He leaned down to meet her kiss with his own, their mouths light and simply touching each other, not moving. 

“Thank you for inviting me to your friend's party,” he said, his mouth moving against hers. 

“I think they've adopted you,” she said, smiling. His breath was warm as he laughed softly. 

“They're--” 

“Assholes. That I do not want to talk about right now.” 

“All right.” 

She stepped away and brought her hands up to unbutton her coat, letting it drop where she stood. He followed suit, and she had to bite down on a gasp when he took off his suit coat, too. Watching him undress was gasp-worthy. Then his hand reached up to jerk at the knot on his tie, and she stepped forward and stayed his slow movements. 

“Let me.” 

She felt a surge of pride when his breath caught; she reached up and curled a finger underneath the knot in his tie, her other hand loosening it. She completed taking the thing off and let go of it, feeling the coolness as the silk slithered against her bare arms. She then unbuttoned first the top button of his shirt and then the next before holding each side and pulling them apart. She laughed when one of the buttons popped off and he complained about tailoring bills. 

Emma turned and kicked her heels to the side, reaching behind her until she felt his warm hand envelop hers. She stepped forward and headed straight for the bedroom, not feeling one bit of trepidation. 

“This suits you,” he laughed when they walked in. She hadn't made the bed in days, and there were clothes everywhere. 

“Shut up,” she said, turning to face him. Deliberately holding his eye, she reached behind her and unzipped her dress, looking for the moment he saw what she was wearing beneath it. Which was nothing but a garter belt. 

“Emma,” he breathed, his eyes going gratifyingly wide as they raked her up and down. She nearly squirmed. _Emma_. He'd finally called her Emma. Then one of his eyebrows shot up as he met her steady gaze. “You were wearing nothing beneath that tiny dress? Had I known--” 

“Had you known, you would have broken several city ordinances against lewd behavior in public,” she retorted. He chuckled and stepped forward, his hand reaching out toward her leg. He touched the garter belt she wore, hooking his finger underneath it until he got to the special holster she had there. 

“Sometimes, a girl needs a place to keep her cuffs.” 

“That is the hottest thing I have ever seen.” 

“Hmm.” She stepped forward, unsurprised that it wasn't weird, and that she felt totally comfortable with him; he made her feel comfortable. And wanted. And sexy. 

She lifted her palms to smooth across his chest, brushing them down until she got to the waistband of his trousers. She yanked on the undershirt he was wearing until it came free, feeling a buzz as her inner muscles started to clench lightly. 

Backing away, Emma moved until she felt the backs of her knees hit the edge of her bed. She sat down and allowed her legs to splay out, leaning back on her elbows and waiting to see what he'd do. 

“Love, you're going to make me spend in my pants here in a minute,” he said, his voice lower, huskier than she'd ever heard it. “I've been watching you all evening, wondering where in the party I could take you, just so I could look at you without anyone else there. I watched you all morning as you charmed everyone at the fair. I never want to stop watching you.” As he spoke, he removed first his button-up and then his undershirt, his eyes on her the entire time, his mouth sneering slightly as he continued. He unbuckled his belt, then undid the button on his pants; he unzipped, but did not continue. He took a few steps forward until he was right in front of her, looking her up and down as if he didn't know where to start first. 

“You like to watch,” she said softly. “So, watch this.” She leaned all the way back, one arm bending to rest behind her head and the other laying across her chest. She danced her fingers across the tops of her breasts but didn't touch the sensitive tips; she drew her hand down between them, continuing a path downward until her hand rested between her legs. She heard his breath catch again and refrained from grinning in triumph; really, it was too easy. 

“What do you see?” she asked softly, pressing her fingers against the outside of her own flesh. She then spread herself open and waited for a reaction. 

“Pink,” he groaned, dropping down to his knees. “Wet.” He licked his lips and looked up at her. “Beautiful. And mine.” 

“Yours,” she sighed in agreement, and it was true. She was definitely his, and he was definitely hers. 

He surprised her by kissing her right where her fingers were holding herself open, and he surprised her even more when he pulled away. He stood and pulled his belt free, his movements a bit jerky and desperate. And she had to admit, she was feeling that same desperation. As much as she wanted his mouth on her, she wanted to feel his skin against her even more, wanted to feel his weight covering her body. 

“Come here,” she said, scrambling up until she was lying across the bed fully. He removed the rest of his clothes, diving back down to pull a foil packet from his pocket and grinning. 

“Always prepared,” she laughed. 

“I'm no boy scout,” he returned darkly, coming over to lay next to her. She was ready for him to just go for it but instead, he looked at her seriously, reaching out to brush her cheek with the backs of his fingers. 

“I don't know,” she breathed, closing her eyes to enjoy his soft touch. “You seem like a pretty good guy to me.” 

“No, no,” he murmured. “I am bad. Very, terribly bad.” 

“You're good,” she insisted, opening her eyes and looking straight at him. His gaze grew heated as he leaned down to kiss her, and she sighed into him. This was what she wanted, and she was ready for it. 

This time was different from the others. She'd been desperate to touch him all night and with the way he had looked at her, he'd felt the same way, but there was no desperation in the way they came together. His touch was warm and gentle, his lips unhurried as they brushed against hers, swept along her cheeks, pressed against her neck. He breathed hot and heavy in her ear, nipping lightly at her flesh as he moved over her. She sighed when his weight finally rested against her fully, the soft crinkle of his chest hair brushing against her breasts and sending a tingle shooting down all the way between her thighs. She widened her legs and he sank between them, his cock resting against her but not moving, not insisting like she wanted it to. 

He kissed her fully, his hands cupping her face on either side. She dug her arms underneath his, her own hands resting above his hips. She had the sudden urge to take it slow, to take her time, to take everything he was trying to give her. There was nothing rushed in it, no race to finish. Emma wanted to feel every single thing Killian had to give. 

Slow sweeps of his tongue had her drunk on him, on the feel of him lying on her, barely moving except for the occasional thrust of his hips against hers. It was different like this, like she could feel every place his body touched hers in vivid detail—the muscles of his thighs tensing between hers, his elbows pressed against her shoulders as he continued to caress her face. At some point she felt the slide of his cock against where she was hot and wet and waiting, but she didn't feel the need to maneuver until he was inside. She was just fine feeling and touching and tasting and kissing. 

“Emma,” he breathed as he pulled back slightly, leaning down to press his forehead to hers. 

“Killian,” she returned, and it was saying his name out loud that did it for both of them. He breathed in, sharp and quick, and then his hips stuttered forward and she could feel the hard hot tip of him pressing against her then away, then back again, sliding through her slick heat and making her body jump when he touched the most sensitive part of her. 

He leaned down once again and this time his kiss was more demanding, more open, his jaw dropping as he kissed her, his hips now starting to dance against hers. She pulled back on a gasp, letting go where she was now clenching his hip to snake her arm out. Reaching around, she felt for the little foil packet and pulled it between them. 

Wordlessly he sat back, taking the condom from her and carefully, torturously opening it slowly. Once he had it in place, he stopped to look at her, flicking the wrapper off the side of the bed. 

She thought he would say something but he didn't, just kept looking at her in the same intense way he'd been doing since their first night together, but there was a new note there this time, something more serious, something more... _more_. And she wanted whatever that was. 

She nodded at him, not knowing what she was nodding about and knowing that whatever it was, it was a yes. He was a yes. He swallowed thickly before coming back down, settling between her legs once again and reaching up with one hand to brush at her hair. Resting on her fully once more, he leaned down to kiss her softly, his cock seeking her out once again. 

When he entered her on a slow, burning, hot slide, she gasped. She looked into his eyes and gasped then moaned when he came to rest, fully inside of her. Not once breaking their eye contact, he pulled back and she sighed, her body humming with anticipation, with the knowing that he'd be back, again and again, he'd be back. He slid back in; she sighed with relief, and the push and pull began. The build-up. The heat and the hot of it. “Killian,” she thought or sighed, she didn't know. “Emma,” he agreed tightly, his mouth covering hers as he sank in again and again, his muscles shuddering as she felt the heat building and gathering, centering in the center of her and radiating out in a burst of white light. 

“Killian,” she gasped on a particularly good spot and he repeated it, over and over again, he repeated it, always reading her sighs, always knowing what she wanted. It was too much, he was too much and yet not enough, his eyes were too much as he kept looking at her and she kept looking at him and she wondered if he thought the same, if he was getting overwhelmed by the way she was looking at him, if it felt like this to him, too, if he thought he could never in a thousand years get enough of this feeling, of this tingle, of this heat threatening to overtake him as he built her up higher and higher and hotter and hotter until it was so much that he was bursting from it, she was bursting from it, she was shuddering and tightening and losing it, she was lost, she was gone, she was falling farther and further and then he was falling, too, he was with her, he was in her and with her and she wanted it, she wanted _all_ of it. 

She came down, gasping for breath and realizing she'd been grasping his back hard. She wondered if there were marks there now and she kind of hoped so, because she herself felt marked by him. That time had been different. Why was it different? Why was it so much better than before, especially when all the befores had been so fucking good? 

“Wow,” she breathed out after a minute. He laughed at that, pulling out of her and wincing as he did so. He rolled over, flopping down next to her, which was what he had done all the other times, and she had simply laid there before, trying to catch her breath, but this time she still felt possessive, like she wanted to keep touching him. So she did. She rolled over, wincing herself when her too-sensitive flesh protested a little and laughing when she thought about why. 

“What's so funny, love,” he murmured, his voice sleepy and content as she curled into his side. The arm she was lying on came to rest on her back, his thumb rubbing her skin where it landed. 

“Just...remembering the nickname I gave you when we first met,” she smiled into his skin, debating whether to tease him with it or tell him outright. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. I'm sore after that, Jones.” 

“Sore.” 

“Mm. You're rather generously endowed, you know.” 

“Aye, so I've been told.” 

“Big, even.” 

“Mm hmm.” 

“Big dicked, you are, Jones.” 

“Yes, Yoda.” 

“Stop,” she laughed, slapping his chest. She almost didn't tell him, but she decided to do it, anyway. She knew it would throw him off, and she realized that she'd have to take every chance she could with that, now that he was going to be a part of her life. At least she hoped he would. She really didn't think he'd object to that. 

“You were BDJ in my phone when we first met.” 

“BD-- Swan. _Swan_. Did you call me Big Dick Jones?” 

“Aye, Captain. I did.” 

“Excellent, this is good news.” 

“What?” she laughed, rising to one elbow and regretting moving immediately. She flopped back down onto his chest, looking up into his grinning eyes. 

“I was afraid you'd call me 'Scoundrel' or 'Rapscallion,' or some such thing. I like Big Dick Jones far better.” 

“I regret telling you.” 

“You do not.” 

“You're right.” 

“So, are you saying I am no longer 'BDJ' in your phone?” 

“No,” she said quietly, and even she heard the somberness of her voice. 

“What's wrong, love?” 

“I...” She hesitated, then decided to just tell him. “I always nickname my one-night stands. I don't ever get their numbers, but I always nickname them. Makes the girls laugh and all.” She broke eye contact to look down, her hand coming up to play with one of the whorls of hair on his chest. “But I don't know, it didn't seem right, keeping the nickname. So I changed it to just 'Killian Jones' a few weeks ago.” She tried like hell to keep her tone nonchalant, but inside, she was feeling anything but. She was realizing as she spoke how momentous that had been for her, and she wondered how she hadn't noticed it before. Maybe it was because he had sort of just happened. Like, they were together without her having noticed. Or any her friends. 

“All right,” was all he said, and that's when she knew she'd made the right choice. 

The following week, when David and Mary Margaret showed up for their Christmas Eve cocoa and the opening of their stockings, neither of them were surprised to see Killian there. Emma supposed she should have been annoyed, but she wasn't. Her family had seen it before she did, and she couldn't blame them for that. 


End file.
